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

by Andy Peloquin

  Screams of agony filled the night. Not just from the wounded, dying, and burning Eirdkilrs below. All around him, along the length of the parapet, Legionnaires and miners cried, whimpered, shrieked, or moaned. A soldier not two paces from Koltun staggered backward and sagged, blood gushing from an arrow wound in the side of his neck. The Legionnaire’s boot skidded on a patch of wet crimson seeping from the eye socket of another fallen soldier. He slipped, and toppled off the edge of the parapet. Koltun couldn’t even hear the thump of the armored body hitting the ground below; the sound was drowned out by the myriad of cries of anguish echoing off the wall.

  “—oltun!” The familiar sound of his name brought Koltun spinning around. He sucked in a breath as he caught sight of Caela and Thog shoving their way along the wall toward him. Relief flooded him. At least they’d survived.

  “Good to see you made it, Sarge.” Thog gave him a broad, beaming grin and clapped him on the back with staggering force.

  “Y-Yeah.” Koltun swallowed, his mouth oddly dry. How long had the battle lasted? Only the fact that his quiver hung empty gave him any indication that time had passed. It seemed an endless blur of darkness, swirling figures, and death.

  Caela leaned over and glanced into his quiver. “Hah!” She turned on Thog with a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Empty, like I said!”

  Thog held up his hands. “Hey, I didn’t take that bet.” He clapped Koltun on the shoulder again. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you that getting old is making you slow, Sarge.”

  That banished the last of the fog of battle from Koltun’s mind. “Someone’s saying I’m slow?” he demanded. “Whoever it is, they won’t have to worry about the Eirdkilrs for long. I’ll show them slow when I put a bolt right up their—”

  “Sergeant Koltun!” Lieutenant Vorris’ voice cut off his words. Koltun spun to find the officer striding toward him, a broad grin on his face. “Damned fine work, Kolt!” He gave an incredulous shake of his head. “And here I thought the stories of you Screaming Howlers were just that.”

  Koltun gave a dismissive wave. “Just doing our job, Lieutenant.” He smiled, which proved surprisingly difficult. Something on his face cracked—partially dried blood, he found as he put a hand to his cheek, though whose it was, he didn’t know. “You handled yourself well enough.”

  “Damned right he did.” Thog gave the Lieutenant a respectful nod. “Some might even say he acted like a damned hero, eh?” The huge Praamian elbowed Caela, a meaningful grin spreading across his huge face. “They’d say that, wouldn’t they, Caela?”

  The woman scowled up at him, refusing to rise to his teasing. The words had a marked effect on Lieutenant Vorris, however. The officer’s face turned a deep red beneath his helmet, and he actually appeared a tad embarrassed in front of Caela.

  Koltun took pity on the man. “Caela, take Wallis and make sure everyone’s got full quivers. Thog, put your head together with Burgo, Connell, and Glad, and figure out the best plan of defense for when the bastards come back.”

  “Sure thing, Sarge.” Thog shot Caela a sardonic wink, nodded to Lieutenant Vorris, and hurried off along the wall.

  Caela hurried off without a word to either Koltun or the Lieutenant, which only seemed to embarrass Vorris all the more.

  “I’ll keep my Screaming Howlers posted on the wall the rest of the night,” Koltun told Lieutenant Vorris, “just in case the Eirdkilrs take another crack at the gate.”

  “Thank you.” Lieutenant Vorris inclined his head. “We’d be seriously buggered without you and yours.”

  “Oh, that’s not quite true.” Koltun reached up and patted the Lieutenant on the arm. “You’re still fucked. We’re just enjoying it right along with you!”

  Despite himself, the Lieutenant actually smiled. “I can’t argue that.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Keep them away from the gate!” Lieutenant Vorris’ shout seemed a thousand miles away, almost drowned beneath the howling Eirdkilr war cries, the whistling of the crossbow bolts, and the thunderous clanking and banging of Eirdkilr arrows battering against the Legionnaires’ shields. The screams and groans of the wounded only added to the cacophony, flooding the world in a chaotic din that threatened to shatter Koltun’s concentration.

  So he blocked it out. Shut his ears to the cries of Legionnaires or miners struck by enemy arrows, to the snarling curses of the soldiers holding the wall at his side, and the bestial, guttural chants of the Eirdkilrs. He had only one thought: keep moving, keep loosing, until the enemy fell back.

  His next bolt took an enemy archer in the throat, and he ducked back behind the crenellation to reload. He listened only for the piercing whistle that marked the bolts of his fellow Screaming Howlers—he had to know at least a few of his soldiers still lived, still fought on.

  Span the string, nock a bolt, raise the crossbow, aim, and loose. Over and over again, his hands and arms pumping without pause as he went through the motions. He and his soldiers were all that stood in the way of the Eirdkilrs. If he faltered, if he slowed, Legionnaires would die. He had to keep the men and women around him alive.

  He popped up, loosed a bolt, and was rewarded by the shrieking scream of an Eirdkilr falling, shaft embedded deep in his chest. In that instant, a flare of brilliant light split the night. The screams of the Eirdkilrs redoubled, rose in volume and intensity. The stink of burning oil and alcohol, charred flesh, and fire-consumed hair and beards billowed up with the black columns of smoke rising from just outside the wall. Beside him, a Legionnaire hurled another clay jar into the chaotic mess of Eirdkilrs below. More screams joined the chorus of agony as the Eirdkilrs burned.

  And retreated. Before Koltun had his next bolt loaded, the Eirdkilrs had already begun to fall back. More than a few screamed and beat at bright tongues of flame licking at their fur cloaks, hair, beards, or leather armor. Many more fell—to the eager fires, or to the Screaming Howlers’ bolts loosed at their backs—never to rise again.

  “Hah!” The Legionnaire on Koltun’s left hurled a sharp curse after the fleeing Eirdkilrs. “And don’t come ba—”

  His words cut off in a wet gurgle and he staggered backward. Blood trickled from the shaft of an Eirdkilr arrow protruding from his throat, and he sagged to the parapet, toppling to fall over the edge, disappearing from sight. His body hit the ground below with a terrible clattering thump as armor and flesh struck solid ground.

  A crossbow bolt shrieked into the night, its wail cut off with a meaty thunk. Koltun caught sight of an Eirdkilr slumping, bow still clutched in his huge hand.

  Slowly, the rush of battle adrenaline fled Koltun’s limbs, and the fatigue following combat washed over him. He leaned heavily against the stone parapets and lowered himself to a seat on the wooden crate that had served as his platform. Removing his helmet, he ran a hand through his sweat-slicked hair. The fingers he combed through his beard came away wet, too. Blood, he saw in the light of a nearby torch. His? No, a quick examination of his face revealed no wounds. A Legionnaires, then. Perhaps the man that had just died.

  All around him, groans, cries, and gurgles filled the air, accompanied by the shouted commands of those responsible for hauling away the injured and clearing the dead from the ramparts. The Menders already had their hands full tending to the wounded. The ground was far too icy and hard to dig graves for the slain.

  I suppose there’s one saving grace in all this. The thought flickered through Koltun’s mind. Arrow wounds are far less severe than axe, club, or spear wounds. The Eirdkilr longbows had power enough to drive a shaft through cloth, leather armor, and flesh, but not the heavy Legionnaire steel breastplates or helmets. With the high walls and man-height shields to hide behind, Ninth Company couldn’t have sustained too heavy casualties.

  With what felt like a superhuman effort, Koltun lifted his head and scanned the soldiers on the parapet. Lieutenant Vorris stood a few yards away, barking orders to Cenye, Rearden, and Enthrak, the Lieutenants Captain Hadrick had assigned to help him h
old the wall.

  Struggling to his feet, Koltun strode over to the Lieutenants on leaden legs.

  “…Lerron can just get that Keeper-damned ballista operational,” Lieutenant Vorris was saying, “then we’ve got a fighting chance here. Midnight’s come and gone and still I don’t see it here, which means something’s gone wrong. Enthrak, I want you to find out what exactly and how we can get the repairs done an hour ago.”

  “Sir!” Despite the fact that they were equal in rank, Lieutenant Enthrak gave Lieutenant Vorris a sharp salute before hurrying away. After all, Captain Hadrick had placed Vorris in charge of the defenses, and Enthrak was one of the few professional soldiers in Highcliff Motte.

  Lieutenant Vorris turned to another of the officers. “Cenye, get me a final tally of all the oil and alcohol remaining.”

  Lieutenant Cenye’s expression grew grim. “It ain’t much, I’ll tell you that.”

  “I need to know precisely,” Lieutenant Vorris insisted. “Even a single drop could spell the difference between life and death.”

  “Sir.” No salute from Cenye, just a respectful nod before he hurried off to obey the order.

  “Rearden, get the wall clear and as clean as possible before the Eirdkilrs decide to take another run at the gate,” Lieutenant Vorris told the last officer. “We’ve no way to see what they’re planning down there—” He gestured toward the Cliffpass beyond the gate. “—so we’ve got to be ready for anything.”

  “Aye, sir!” Saluting, Lieutenant Rearden hurried off, shouting orders for buckets of sand and dirt to be hauled to the parapet as the wounded were carried off to the Menders.

  “Sergeant.” Lieutenant Vorris turned toward him with a nod. “You and yours have done a fine job. We’re counting on you all to help us keep them away from the gate until we can bring that damned ballista up.”

  “Glad to pitch in.” Koltun brushed off the compliment with a shrug; he and the Screaming Howlers didn’t need praise to do their jobs to the best of their abilities. He glanced around, at the soldiers and miners hurrying along the tops of the walls, the flurry of movement that gripped the parapet and the southern edge of Highcliff Motte. An edge of fear tinged the urgency of the activity. The Legionnaires were terrified—and they had every right to be, given what they faced.

  “Give it to me straight.” He spoke in a voice pitched low for the Lieutenant’s ears only. “How bad is it?”

  Lieutenant Vorris’ face hardened, his fists tightening at his side. “Could be worse.” His casual tone belied the darkness in his eyes.

  “Don’t feed me shite and call it cake, Vorris.” Koltun glared up at the tall officer. “How. Bad?”

  A moment of tense silence elapsed, then Lieutenant Vorris answered in a quiet voice. “Worse than we thought. I already know what Lieutenant Cenye’s going to tell me—we’ll run out of oil at the next attack, and flammable liquor shortly thereafter.”

  Koltun stifled a curse. That was the only thing keeping the damned Eirdkilr ram from reaching the gate. “Any chance you’ve come up with a clever way to knock that ram out of commission?”

  “I’ve considered every possibility I can think of to snatch it out of their hands, and I’ve come up with piss-all.” The Lieutenant scowled. “If it was wood, fire might do the trick, but the thing’s bloody iron. We could quietly send a few squads out through the sally port, but we’ve still got the weight problem to deal with. In the time it’d take us to get a team of horses hitched to the ram, get the gate open, and haul the damned thing inside, the Eirdkilrs would be on top of us. Worse, it’d reveal the location of the sally port, and that’d be one more weakness for them to exploit.”

  Koltun’s gut tightened. So much for hoping things start looking up.

  “And the men?” he asked.

  Lieutenant Vorris’ eyebrows knitted together. “Five Legionnaires dead, another ten with the Menders getting patched up. A handful with minor wounds but too damned stubborn to leave the walls. As for the rest…” He shook his head. “Captain Hadrick just wouldn’t listen when I told him the men needed daily drills.”

  Koltun’s jaw muscles worked. He’d seen the sorry state of many of the Legionnaires, men too overweight for their armor and too weak to hold their shields in a proper formation. If the Eirdkilrs ever got over the wall, Ninth Company would have no chance of victory.

  “Best thing we can do is keep them out of our hair, yeah?” Koltun tried to sound more confident than he felt. “With that ballista in operation, we’ve got a fair shot of holding.”

  Lieutenant Vorris nodded, but his expression appeared unconvinced.

  “But know that I’ve got the Secret Keeper working on a quick escape route,” Koltun said, again in a low mutter. “If things go bad, we’ll have a way to cover our retreat. Give the lads a fighting chance of getting out of here alive.”

  Lieutenant Vorris’ eyebrows shot up. “Truly?”

  Koltun grinned and patted the officer’s arm. “Let’s just say our dear Arch-Guardian’s coming up with something the Eirdkilrs will never see coming.” Truth be told, until he’d seen the explosive power of the flarequartz for himself, he wouldn’t have believed such a thing possible.

  For the first time, a hint of hope and relief cracked the stony façade of Lieutenant Vorris’ face. “You pull off a miracle like that, I’ll buy you Screaming Howlers all the wine in Kaldrborg.”

  “Careful, Lieutenant.” A grin tugged at Koltun’s lips. “That’s one promise my soldiers will take very seriously. Glad most of all.” He glanced toward the western end of the wall, where Gladabar sat on the parapet with his two brothers sharing a flask he’d produced from somewhere.

  That sight brought back a memory, and Koltun reached into his pocket. “Here.” He drew out the flask he’d taken from the triplets and held it out to Lieutenant Vorris. “For the war effort.”

  Lieutenant Vorris stared down at the metallic flask, his eyes widening a fraction. A long second passed before he took it, nodding gratefully. "Thank you, Kolt. For everything.”

  “Oh, don’t go getting all mushy on me!” Koltun waved him away. “Just focus on keeping us alive, and that’ll be thanks enough.”

  With a chuckle, Lieutenant Vorris turned and marched off down the wall, toward a cluster of Legionnaires resting after the battle. Koltun watched the officer go, watching him stop and talk to each group of soldiers for a few moments before moving on. That was the mark of a good leader, the sort Legionnaires could respect.

  Nothing like our dear Captain Hadrick, wherever the bloody hell he is.

  Koltun glanced toward the stone building in the heart of Highcliff Motte. He frowned; the windows were dark, no candles or torches to light the interior. Yet, as he peered along the length of the parapet or to the two dozen Legionnaires holding the gate below, he saw no sign of the rotund Captain.

  A hand on his arm turned him away from his search for Captain Hadrick. Turning, he found Wallis standing behind him, two full quivers of crossbow bolts held out to him.

  “Swordsman bless you, lad!” Koltun grinned as he took the quivers. His own had just two bolts left.

  “You know I’m not a lad, right?” Wallis’ youthful face pulled into a frown. “I’m one and twenty this winter coming.”

  “That may be,” Koltun replied, “but until you’ve got some hair on those rosy cheeks of yours, you’ll stay ‘lad’ to the rest of us, aye?”

  Wallis blushed and pressed a hand to his cheeks. He had only the first hints of a pitiful moustache clinging to the corners of his mouth, without so much as downy fuzz on his chin. He was also the newest recruit—a Screaming Howler for less than three months by now—while the rest of their small company had been together for the better part of two years.

  “Off with you, lad.” Koltun winked and grinned. “Others will likely be wanting a refill.”

  Wallis nodded and turned to go, but seemed to hesitate. He cast an uncertain glance at Koltun.

  “Speak your troubling thoughts, lad.” K
oltun’s voice was gentle. “Better to let them out than keep them in where they can gnaw at your mind.”

  Wallis swallowed, drew in a deep breath, then swallowed again. “It’s just…” He cleared his throat, glancing over the wall into the darkness of the Cliffpass below. “They’re going to keep coming until they’ve gotten through, aren’t they?”

  Koltun followed the young man’s gaze. He remembered his earliest years as a soldier, and all the times the shadows and fear of the enemy played tricks on his mind. “Aye, likely as not.”

  “Well…” Wallis sucked in a breath. “Should we really be staying then, Sarge?” His cheeks reddened and shame burned bright in his eyes at just saying the words aloud. Yet now that they’d been voiced, he drove on. “I know you already said you’re staying, and of course we’re staying with you, but…” He trailed off.

  “But you’re wondering why I’d stay knowing our chances of getting out of here alive are slim, yes?” Koltun cocked an eyebrow.

  The flush of Wallis’ face deepened, but he nodded.

  “It’s simple, lad.” Koltun spoke in a quiet voice. “War is a chaotic, messy thing. So much of what happens is beyond our control. We can’t stop every arrow, spear, club, or axe, and we can’t keep every one of our comrades alive, no matter how much we wish otherwise.” A fist of ice clutched in his stomach as the faces of comrades, friends, and fellow Legionnaires flashed before Koltun’s eyes. Swallowing, he met Wallis’ eyes steadily. “So when there comes a time that you can make a difference, when you can control the outcome of a battle, even just a little bit, you damned well take it!”

  Understanding dawned in the young man’s eyes. “I-I think I understand. Our being here gives everyone here a chance, however slim, to survive.”

  “Precisely.” Koltun gripped Wallis’ forearm. “And even if it didn’t, even if nothing we did changed a damned thing, a man’s got to ask himself whether or not he could abandon his fellows in a battle to the death like this.” He gave a gentle squeeze. “This is one battle I can’t run from, not until I’ve got no other choice.”