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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Of course, Sergeant.” Determination hardened on Wallis’ face. “So we hold the wall, no matter what.”

  “No matter what.” Koltun nodded and released his grip on the young man’s arm. “No matter what,” he repeated, more to himself.

  With a sharp salute, Wallis hurried off along the parapet to deliver the rest of the quivers he carried.

  “A fine speech.” Thog’s voice rumbled behind Koltun. “You practice that a while?”

  Koltun turned toward Thog with a scowling glare, his mouth open to snap a retort. But before he could summon the words, something in the fortress below diverted his attention. Captain Hadrick marched into view down the road, a look of utter self-satisfaction on his pudgy face.

  “Lieutenant Vorris,” he called out, “I’ve found you your reinforcements!”

  Chapter Ten

  Cold dread settled in Koltun’s gut. He can’t mean—

  The thought died unformed as he caught sight of the figures behind Captain Hadrick. Men, women, and youths clad in the garb of civilians carried a motley assortment of shovels, picks, hammers, and other tools of a trade, not battle. More than a hundred and fifty civilians marched along in Captain Hadrick’s wake. Their faces were set and determined, yet fear shone in their eyes.

  “Captain Hadrick—” Lieutenant Vorris began, but the Captain cut him off with a slash of his hand.

  “These brave souls have determined to join us in the defense of Highcliff Motte.” Captain Hadrick swept an expansive gesture toward the civilians behind him. “I explained to them the danger we face, and they agreed that it is in all our best interests to lend a hand.”

  Koltun scanned the cluster of men, women, and youths, and his gut tightened as his eyes settled on one familiar figure. A young man, barely into his sixteenth year, with bruises on his face and clothes still stained from the muck. Lingram stood in the shadow of his father and two older brothers, carrying a shovel in a white-knuckled grip, as if it would somehow keep him alive against the giant barbarians preparing to storm the gate.

  The tightness in his gut turned to burning heat, a furnace of anger directed at Captain Hadrick. He was moving before he realized it, racing toward the nearest staircase down from the parapet as fast as his legs could carry him.

  “Sarge, no.” A huge figure moved to block his path—Burgo, his face set in a hard cast. “Don’t make this worse. The Lieutenant’s got this.”

  Koltun tried to maneuver around Burgo, but the Westhavener refused to budge.

  “All due respect, Captain,” Lieutenant Vorris’ voice carried across the street, “but surely you will reconsider this.” His words were clipped, tight, his posture stiff and his fists clenched at his side. “They are not Legionnai—”

  “They are citizens of Highcliff Motte, and as such, have the right to defend their homes!” Captain Hadrick drove over the Lieutenant’s protests. The Captain’s eyes locked on Koltun, and he stabbed a finger in his direction. “And, as Sergeant Koltun was good enough to point out, to successfully defend a walled position like this, we’d need at least one for every five to ten of theirs. This way, we close the odds a bit.”

  “But, sir—”

  “No buts!” Captain Hadrick’s voice cracked like a whip. “The decision has been made, and you will obey it. Is that clear, Lieutenant Vorris?”

  Fury rose within Koltun’s chest, burning so bright it threatened to explode. He all but shoved Burgo aside as he stormed toward the staircase. He’d just taken his first step down when a strong hand clamped on his shoulder and dragged him backward, onto the parapet. Thog, his impossibly broad shoulders and strong arms like granite against Koltun’s struggles, didn’t let up until he’d pulled Koltun far from the stairs.

  “Let it go, Sarge,” the big man rumbled in Koltun’s ear.

  “Let me go!” Koltun snarled back at the huge Praamian.

  “So what, you can assault the Captain?” Thog’s grip tightened on Koltun’s bicep. “And what’s that going to do? How’s that going to help the situation here?”

  Koltun’s anger fast approached the boiling point, but nothing he did could wrest his arm free of Thog’s massive hand. He turned a furious glare up at the huge man, but Thog only met his burning eyes with calm.

  “The time may come for you to do something about Captain Hadrick.” Thog spoke in a low, tight voice. “But this is not that time. Captain Hadrick’s the smaller of the two problems. Now we’ve got to focus on keeping the enemy outside the walls from killing us all.”

  Koltun wanted to lash out at Thog, to snarl curses and heap insults on Captain Hadrick’s head. Yet he knew Thog was right. Much as he despised the idea of putting the lives of the civilians of Highcliff Motte in danger to protect the wall, the truth was that they already were in danger just by being in the fortress.

  But it was Captain Hadrick’s smugness that fueled the fire of his fury. The Captain had all but spit in his face the way he’d thrown his words back at him. As if it were somehow his fault that all the men, women, and lads like Lingram were going to wind up dying to help hold the walls. That was one burden he would not carry, and Keeper take any man who tried to lay the blame at his feet!

  Slowly, his fury cooled as it crashed against Thog’s unyielding calm. The big Praamian held his gaze without flinching, until he finally let go of Koltun’s arm. With effort, Koltun bit down on the boiling tempest of anger within him and forced his lungs to draw in two deep, calming breaths.

  “Aye,” he finally managed to say. “This isn’t the time.”

  “We’ll be ready when it is,” Thog replied with a nod. “Until then, we’ve got a job to do.”

  “So we do.” Koltun pushed himself up from the wall and, without a word, marched off along the parapet. To his relief, none of the Legionnaires had seen the little exchange—they were all too focused on what was going on below. Captain Hadrick was marching back toward his command post, leaving Lieutenant Vorris and the other officers to sort out the best disposition of their new “reinforcements”. More than a few angry mutters ran among the Legionnaires; they, too, seemed to share Koltun’s feelings toward the civilians joining them.

  But not for the same reasons. “Bloody laborers are going to be damned useless,” murmured one Legionnaire to another.

  “Worse, they’ll get us killed,” snorted his comrade, a rotund man bulging out of his breastplate. “What the fiery hell is the Captain thinking?”

  He’s thinking he’s got to find others to save his hide and fight his battles for him. Koltun had a firm grip on his anger, though the fire in his belly hadn’t dimmed. Like the coward he is.

  With effort, he clamped his jaw shut, swallowing hard to keep the inferno raging in his stomach from spilling out of his mouth. He forced himself to keep looking out over the wall—searching the darkness for the enemy gave him a chance to push Captain Hadrick’s cravenness from his mind.

  The Eirdkilrs were out there, somewhere, hiding in the shadows of night. Preparing for their next assault, the one they doubtless hoped would be the final push that got them through the gate. But the bastards hadn’t reckoned on the Screaming Howlers. Koltun’s men would be reloading their crossbows as they crouched in the shelter of the wall and the shields of those few Legionnaires paying attention in the right direction. They would be ready, whatever the Eirdkilrs threw at them.

  Men and women jostled all around him as the conscripted miners and civilians took their places on the wall.

  “Stand there, boy,” came a harsh voice from Koltun’s right, “and try to stay out of my Keeper-damned way if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Yes, sir.” The familiar voice brought Koltun’s head snapping around.

  Lingram stood a few yards away from him, stationed in the shadow of one of the Legionnaires holding the wall. He held a bucket of sand in quivering hands, his face pale and gaze darting nervously.

  “You, boy!” Koltun called. “Come here.”

  Lingram’s gaze darted toward him a
nd his eyes flew wide. He cast a hesitant glance up at the Legionnaire, but the Corporal had already turned back to his post, not giving a damn about the youth behind him. The soldier didn’t notice when Lingram scuttled with his heavy sand bucket over to where Koltun held the wall.

  “What the fiery hell are you doing?” Koltun hissed at the young man.

  “F-Fighting for my home and family, s-sir.” Despite the quaver in Lingram’s voice, a gleam of iron determination shone in the youth’s eyes. “My pa and brothers—”

  “Shouldn’t be here either.” Koltun growled a silent curse. “Look, you want to stay alive in this, you keep your eyes sharp and do exactly as I say, got it?”

  At the words “stay alive”, Lingram’s face grew a shade paler and a bead of sweat trickled down his bruised face. Yet he managed to nod and say, “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s yes, Sergeant, to you,” Koltun barked, his voice Drill Sergeant-harsh. “If you’re going to fight, you’ve got to understand the chain of command. Follow the orders you’re given at once. Hesitation gets men killed.” And young boys too terrified to know they’re in the wrong place.

  “Y-Yes, Sergeant.” Lingram swallowed, wiped sweat from his brow, and adjusted his grip on the handle of his bucket.

  “You won’t be needing that.” Koltun gestured toward the pail. “You set that down. I’ve got a new job for you.” He thrust a finger at Wallis, who stood with Caela a few dozen yards to the east. “Go talk to Wallis and let him know I’ve set you the task of making sure all our quivers are stocked. The moment battle starts, we’ll be loosing bolts too fast to count. It’s up to you to ensure we run out of Eirdkilrs before we run out of missiles. Clear?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” His voice rang with more confidence; Koltun’s certitude went a long way toward setting his nerves at ease.

  “Good.” Koltun nodded. “Now go!”

  The sharp order sent Lingram running off along the wall toward Wallis. Koltun watched the young man go for a moment, then returned his attention to the activity around him. Soldiers gripped their shields and swords tighter, shuffled in place, and cursed quietly as they stared into the darkness. Behind them, miners and civilians hauled stones, sand, weapons, and food and water to refresh the exhausted Legionnaires.

  Yet despite the noise of so much movement, a tense, charged silence hung over the majority of the men and women atop the wall. Few spoke; no words could explain the dread that was settling into the bones of the defenders.

  No matter how quiet the Cliffpass was now, they all knew the peace would soon be shattered. The Eirdkilrs would attack again, and when they did, only the Keeper could foretell the battle’s outcome. Death came for them—they could only face it the best way they knew how.

  Chapter Eleven

  Morning dawned bleak and grey, and still no attack came. No snarled war cries echoed through the thick fog that blanketed the southern end of the Cliffpass and the icy Wastelands beyond. No fur-clad figures surged up the rocky path; the trail beyond the gate lay empty save for the charred and bolt-riddled corpses of the Eirdkilrs fallen in battle.

  Koltun hated the utter silence. Hated it more than the chaotic turmoil of battle, the bedlam of clashing weapons, howling cries, and whistling crossbow bolts. In battle, he knew where his enemy was and what they intended. Now, with nothing but stillness and the grey light of dawn, he felt a profound sense of wrongness settle into his bones.

  “You think they’ve retreated?” a nearby Legionnaire muttered to his comrade. “Maybe they realized they can’t take the wall and decided to call off the attack.”

  That elicited a bark of mocking laughter from the other soldier. “Fool! They won’t call off the attack until either we’re all dead or they are.” The Legionnaire’s voice grew grim. “They’re out there, mark my words. Just waiting for the right moment to strike.”

  Which would be right now, Koltun thought. With the thick fog to hide them, they could get within fifty yards of the gate without us spotting them. He tightened his grip on his crossbow’s wooden stock in nervous anticipation. His eyes never stopped scanning the fog-drenched Cliffpass below. The first sign of movement, and he’d be ready.

  Yet, even after an hour passed and the sun climbed higher into the sky, burning away some of the fog, still no attack came. The sense of wrongness deepened. The Eirdkilrs had launched three assaults on the wall the previous night, yet now they hesitated when they had the perfect cover? It made no sense! The Eirdkilrs fought in a very straightforward manner—they charged their enemy in a solid battle line, trusting their massive size, strength, and ferocity to carry the victory—but the simplicity of their tactics didn’t make them fools. And only idiots would pass up such an opportunity to attack the walls under cover of the morning mist.

  So what in the fiery hell are they planning? His imagination ran wild, but each impossible scenario only added to his trepidation.

  Tension slithered down his spine as something flickered in the fog. Every sense was instantly on alert and he snapped the crossbow up to his shoulder, ready to fire. Lightning twitched through his muscles as he stared down the length of the steel-tipped bolt into the heavy wall of grey filling the Cliffpass.

  Nothing. The silence below remained unbroken. No Eirdkilr cries, not so much as a scuff of heavy boots on stone.

  Koltun leaned forward, straining to peer through the fog. Fear sank icy claws into his mind as his imagination conjured visions of horrific beasts, monstrous abominations, even demons from the frozen hell.

  Movement again. Barely a flicker, a flash of white amidst the light grey fog. This time, however, Koltun was ready for it.

  The string of his crossbow twanged, the bolt shrieked into the fog, and a muffled thunk echoed from the Cliffpass. The wall around him exploded into a cacophony of shouts, orders, and calls to battle.

  Koltun’s hands were moving, going through the motions of reloading, but his gaze never left the misty wall of grey below. Something was out there. He’d hit it, but what it was, he couldn’t tell.

  More movement in the fog. Slow, steady forward motion, impossible to see clearly, yet even the hint of the outline he could see sent a shiver down his spine. Broad, flat, with a thick layer of ice covering fur, it was the back of some massive creature taller than any Eirdkilr and slithering steadily toward the gate. A monstrosity like those his mind had conjured.

  Impossible! Koltun’s thoughts spun, a chaotic maelstrom of primitive, animalistic fear. He called up every legend and myth he could remember, trying to picture what manner of creature could be so enormous. Dread coiled in his gut; at any moment, the beast’s head would emerge from the fog. Would it have slavering jaws and gleaming eyes, or would it be something far fouler, a beast of some forgotten hell?

  To his right, another crossbow bolt shrieked into the grey mists. It thunked into something solid, but the answering scream sounded oddly…human. Confusion warred with the panic trying to claw its way into Koltun’s mind.

  He had his answer a moment later.

  The thing that emerged from the mist still appeared like a massive creature, twenty feet across, easily eight or nine feet tall. Yet it was no monster, no single beast of nightmare. Koltun’s eyes flew wide as he recognized the moving legs and heavy boots of the Eirdkilrs visible beneath the ice-covered furs. Instead of gleaming eyes and a monstrous jaw, only furs hung at the front of the strange-looking “beast”.

  Keeper’s teeth!

  The Eirdkilrs had taken a page from the Legion’s book of tactics, had mimicked the Legionnaires’ tortoise carapace shield formation that served to protect from enemy arrow fire. But in place of man-sized rectangular shields, the Eirdkilrs had draped heavy ice bear pelts over their shields, and piled on heaps of snow and ice atop the furs.

  Snow and ice meant to protect them from our fire, Koltun realized with a gasp. The Eirdkilrs weren’t afraid of arrows—even firing at top speed, the Screaming Howlers could only kill a fraction of the enemy before they pulled back or overwhelmed t
he defenders. No, the true threat to their battle plan was the oil and alcohol-fueled fires that kept them from lifting the heavy metal ram.

  Awe and astonishment flashed through Koltun at the sight of that strange, monstrous-looking beast of flesh, fur, and ice crawling toward them. Only a truly brilliant mind could come up with a strategy like that.

  Yet those feelings fled, shoved to the back of his mind by the knowledge of what was to come. The battle ahead would be the hardest yet.

  Tearing his eyes from the advancing Eirdkilr formation, he whirled toward Lieutenant Vorris. “Stones!” he shouted.

  The Lieutenant seemed to have come to the same conclusion—they’d need the heavy stones to break up the ice-covered protective formation before using the fire—for he barked an order to the nearby miners and civilians. “Ready stones!”

  A flurry of activity broke out along the parapet as men, women, and youths—including Lingram’s two older brothers—hauled the heavy stones onto the wall. Legionnaires made way for the laborers to drag their loads into position and prepared to drop them on the oncoming Eirdkilrs. The last attack had inched the metal battering ram to within five yards of the gate. Grim expressions twisted the faces of every Legionnaire, miner, and civilian awaiting battle, and Koltun knew what they were thinking.

  It was the same question he’d asked himself over and over since the first attack. Can we stop them from reaching the gate again? That ram, wielded by the massive Eirdkilrs, would punch its way through the gate. Wood and iron would fail beneath the assault. It was only a matter of time.

  So we bloody well stop them! Koltun spun back toward the wall, raised his crossbow, and took aim. His bolt shrieked through the air and punched into an Eirdkilr’s exposed leg with bone-shattering force. The barbarian went down, screaming, and the ice-covered fur he held fell with him. For an instant, a gap opened in the front of the strange, monstrous column.