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

by Andy Peloquin

  But they did not.

  The sun wheeled overhead, its light turning from noonday brilliance to afternoon gold, then slowly setting behind the western cliffs. Evening turned to night as a shroud of darkness blanketed the Cliffpass. Soldiers ate and drank where they stood, holding their posts though their arms and legs ached from the hours of watch.

  The attack came an hour after sunset.

  The howling of the Eirdkilrs grew louder, more frenzied, ringing off the stone cliff walls with a bestial furor that sent a chill through Koltun’s bones. That sound told him the enemy was coming.

  The Legionnaires knew it, too.

  “We hold these walls!” Lieutenant Vorris roared. “We hold this gate, until our last breaths and the final beat of our hearts! Is that understood, Legionnaires of the Ninth?”

  “Understood, sir!” The soldiers’ answering call thundered along the parapet, for a moment drowning out the Eirdkilrs’ howling war cries.

  “Give them hell, lads!” Koltun shouted.

  Cheers and shouts echoed from the Legionnaires as the first of the Screaming Howlers’ shrieking bolts hissed toward the enemy surging up the trail.

  Ten Eirdkilrs fell, trampled beneath the heavy booted feet of their comrades. Arrows hissed up from the barbarians’ ranks to skitter off Legionnaire shields or slice through the empty night air overhead. Koltun was a blur of movement, loading and loosing bolts as fast as he could. The repetition settled over him, filling him with the cold calm of battle.

  The Eirdkilrs came on en masse, stampeding toward the dropped ram. Dozens of massive barbarians lifted the metal beam, while dozens more raised their heavy circular wooden shields to protect their comrades from the Screaming Howlers’ crossbow bolts. Yet there was something furious and frenzied about this assault. Instead of waiting for the ram, hundreds of Eirdkilrs swirled around their slower-moving comrades and surged toward the gate. Wood shuddered and boomed beneath hundreds of hammering fists, and the barbarians clambered atop the shoulders of their fellows to claw at the stone wall.

  Koltun’s gut tightened. Looks like they’re abandoning cunning in favor of a full-on assault. He punctuated the thought by sending his bolt into an Eirdkilr’s throat, dropping the barbarian and silencing the howling war cry in a gurgling gasp.

  Yet something about that realization felt wrong. So much so that his fingers hesitated for a full heartbeat, still clutching the goat’s foot lever on his belt.

  The Eirdkilrs attacking Highcliff Motte had proven themselves cleverer and more strategic than other hordes he’d faced. Their leader was clearly unlike the other barbarian chieftains and commanders that had waged war on the Legion. Everything—from the construction of a metal ram to the ice-covered furs—spoke of a new way of thinking, a deep-rooted cunning that surpassed the Eirdkilrs’ usual savagery.

  So why would he change tactics now? The question slammed into Koltun’s mind as he nocked a bolt, loosed, and set about reloading again. Why would he resort to the brute force attack?

  Had the leader of the barbarians reached the limits of his cunning? Had a handful of the horde simply chosen to ignore their leader’s orders and attack the wall straight-on? The Eirdkilrs were brutal, relentless, and barbaric fighters, but they were no more suicidal than any Legionnaire. They wouldn’t charge a fortified position—a wall as tall and a gate as strong as Highcliff Motte’s—without good reason.

  Two things could explain the sudden shift. The Eirdkilrs couldn’t possibly know the Legionnaires had run out of fuel for their fires. They might be probing the defenses, a feint before a full commitment to battle.

  Koltun popped up and loosed again, bringing down another Eirdkilr racing up the trail. Nothing about this attack feels tentative, he realized as he caught sight of the densely-packed mass of barbarians pressing toward the gate. They’re pressing hard, no mistake.

  Then only one other thing made sense. The Eirdkilrs had only one other reason to commit to an attack that had, until now, proven fruitless.

  Before he could put the thought into words, a shrill, agonized cry echoed from behind and to his right. A youth’s wail of pain, too low to be a woman’s but not deep enough to be a man’s.

  Ice slithered down Koltun’s spine. Lingram!

  He tore his eyes from his task of reloading his crossbow and his gaze locked on the young man staggering backward, clutching at the arrow embedded in his throat. For a terrible moment, Koltun’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. He’d recognize that young face and sandy hair anywhere. Time froze as the young man toppled backward off the parapet, dead before he hit the ground.

  Yet, in that single instant before the youth plummeted from view, Koltun had gotten a good look at his face. A face like Lingram’s. Lingram’s older brother.

  Whirling around, he sent his crossbow bolt into the densely-packed mass of barbarians below, then spun back to the task of reloading while searching for the young man. He had to find Lingram, had to make sure the boy still lived.

  Relief flooded him as he caught sight of Lingram racing along the parapet, quivers bouncing on his shoulders. The youth was running toward the eastern end of the wall, toward Gladabar and his brothers.

  Yet, that faint moment of relief turned to ash in his mouth as something on the cliff high overhead caught his attention. A flash of movement, barely visible in the darkness yet unmistakable. He blinked hard, but it was no trick of his mind. He saw it, as certain as he saw the enemy howling at the gate.

  The Eirdkilrs were climbing down the cliff behind the walls of Highcliff Motte.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Sneak attack!” Koltun had to roar to be heard above the din of battle. “Enemies on the cliffs to the east!”

  The Eirdkilr leader’s plan had worked to perfection. The assault on the gate kept the Legionnaires’ attention locked on the barbarians howling outside their walls, and the darkness provided cover for the Eirdkilrs high up on the cliff. He alone had seen the true threat to the defenders.

  “Thog!” Koltun gripped the Praamian’s huge bicep and dragged him away from the wall.

  “Damn it, Kolt!” Thog snapped. “You made me miss my—”

  “Enemies!” Koltun shouted and stabbed a finger toward the cliff wall. “We’ve got to stop them from getting down.”

  Thog spun to follow Koltun’s pointing finger, and an explosive curse burst from his lips.

  “Come on!” Koltun had no time to wait for the big man to catch up. He raced past Thog and sprinted along the parapet toward the cliff wall. “Grab Glad and Nouth on the way,” he called over his shoulder. “The rest need to focus on helping keep the Eirdkilrs away from the ram.”

  He didn’t pause to glance behind him; Thog would obey the command—if he heard it over the chaos of the furious combat. Koltun had no time to hesitate. Every second wasted calling for reinforcements meant the Eirdkilrs drew closer to the base of the cliff—and the unguarded southeastern corner of Highcliff Motte. Every able-bodied man and woman was busy fighting to hold the gate. If the enemy managed to get a foothold within the fortress, the defenders were done for.

  The moment Koltun drew within range of the Eirdkilrs, he flung himself to a knee and set about loading his crossbow. Those five seconds felt like an eternity, though his hands flashed with every shred of speed he could muster. By the time he raised his crossbow to his shoulder, the nearest Eirdkilr had descended to just twenty yards above the top of the wall.

  Not close enough, you bastard! With a silent snarl, Koltun squeezed the trigger mechanism. The string twanged and snapped forward. The bolt shrieked off into the darkness, speeding toward the Eirdkilr. Though the upward angle slowed the missile, it struck the Eirdkilr’s lower back with devastating force. Steel punched through leather, flesh, and soft organs. The impact slammed the Eirdkilr into the wall, knocking him free and sending him plummeting to his death on the muddy streets of Highcliff Motte. He fell with barely a grunting cry and hit the ground with a terrible, squelching crunch.

>   Even as the body fell, Koltun was moving, his arms pumping as he spanned the string, nocked a bolt, and shouldered the crossbow. Another bolt howled up into the night and bit deep into the back of an Eirdkilr’s head. The barbarian fell without a sound.

  A third bolt, fired from behind Koltun, dropped another Eirdkilr. Two more in quick succession, and two huge bodies plummeted into the darkness.

  Yet, even as Koltun brought his crossbow up to loose again, a sick sensation churned in his gut. Five enemies had fallen in the space of a few seconds, yet how many more remained in the shadows? By his quick count of those he could see, more than a hundred barbarians clung to the cliff wall, scrambling down into Highcliff Motte as fast as they safely could. Their huge hands and feet dug into the jagged stone, muscles propelling them along at a pace that seemed inhuman, impossible. They carried no shields, only the weapons hanging from their backs and belts, yet even empty-handed they’d be more than a match for the Legionnaires and civilians holding the wall.

  We can’t let them reach the ground! Koltun brought down another Eirdkilr, loaded, and loosed again. Every shred of speed and skill went into spanning the bow, nocking, and squeezing the trigger. His accuracy, honed over years of daily practice with the weapon, sent the bolts straight and true. Screaming missiles punched into Eirdkilr backs, necks, arms, and legs. Anything to wound the Eirdkilrs and stop them from climbing down. A fall from their height would prove fatal even to the giant barbarians.

  But there were just too damned many. Even with Thog, Gladabar, and Nouth joining him, they could only fire a bolt every five seconds. Five seconds, far too much time for the Eirdkilrs to clamber down, down, down toward the walls and the streets of Highcliff Motte.

  Over and over, Koltun went through the motions of nocking and loosing, nocking and loosing. Every squeeze of his trigger sent a finger of death hurtling into the darkness. Every twang of his crossbow string brought a scream from a dying Eirdkilr. Yet even as he nocked another bolt and prepared to loose, he could feel the quiver on his hip growing light. Too light. He’d be out of bolts long before he ran out of Eirdkilrs.

  “Lingram!” he roared over his shoulder. “Lingram, to me!” He didn’t know if the youth could hear him—if he was even on this side of the wall—but had no time to stop and check. Not until his quiver was empty.

  Dread coiled in his gut as he reached into his quiver and came back with one last bolt. He took time with this final shot, aiming carefully at an Eirdkilr high up on the cliff. Drawing in a deep breath, he studied his crossbow, timing the shot just right. When he clicked the trigger, the string snapped forward and sent the bolt hurtling up toward his enemy’s back. Steel punched through the barbarian’s leather armor, severing his spine. The giant’s legs sagged, suddenly gone limp, and he plunged from the wall. He screamed all the way down—as did the comrade he dislodged as he collided in his descent. The two of them struck the muddy ground far below the wall.

  And still more remained. Dozens, no scores, like enormous white-furred spiders clinging to the wall. Climbing steadily downward, their speed impossibly fast. No matter how many bolts the four of them loosed, no matter how many enemies fell to their deaths, the rest came on.

  This was the epitome of Eirdkilr tactics. Brute force and sheer weight of numbers carried the day far too often. It didn’t matter that the Legion held the walls; the Eirdkilr commander would do whatever it took, sacrifice however many warriors were needed, to defeat them.

  Pushing back against the cold dread that threatened to sap the strength from his limbs, Koltun spun. “Lingram!” he roared again. “Damn it, Lingram, where—”

  “Here, Sergeant!” The boy materialized in front of him, a quiver—the last he carried—thrust out toward Koltun. Behind him, Caela and Burgo raced toward his position, crossbows loaded and ready to loose at the enemy. Koltun didn’t know if they’d come on their own or Lingram had warned them, but he gave the youth a silent blessing. Either way, Lingram had just given him a fighting chance of stopping the Eirdkilrs.

  “Get to Lieutenant Vorris!” Koltun shouted. “Make sure he knows what’s really going on!”

  Lingram spun and dashed off along the wall without hesitation, and Koltun turned back to the grim business of picking off the Eirdkilrs climbing down the cliff. More had appeared—even after picking off nearly five dozen, close to a hundred and fifty climbers now descended toward the streets of Highcliff Motte and the high wall. The Eirdkilr commander had committed just a fraction of his forces to this sneak attack, but even that fraction outnumbered the defending Legionnaires.

  Kneeling, Koltun spanned the string, nocked, and brought the weapon up to his shoulder. The shrieks of Thog’s bolts fell silent—his quiver had to be empty—but Gladabar, Nouth, Caela, and Burgo joined Koltun in sending a steady stream of screaming missiles up toward the Eirdkilrs. In ones and twos they fell. A lucky shot from Caela dropped an Eirdkilr onto two of his climbing comrades, sending the three of them plummeting to the ground.

  And still the Eirdkilrs descended. Relentless, their downward progress never slowing despite the heavy toll the Screaming Howlers took on their comrades.

  We’re not going to stop them. The thought sent a wash of ice flooding Koltun’s veins. He tried to shove it aside, tried to drown it beneath a tide of grim determination, but he could not ignore it any longer. No matter how fast he and his five Screaming Howlers loosed, they hadn’t the ammunition or the manpower to bring down so many.

  Or the strength. Fire screamed through Koltun’s arms and shoulders, his hands aching from the incessant strain of loading and loosing. Yet no matter how fast he moved, the time between shots was too long to stop the Eirdkilrs.

  Twenty yards became fifteen, then ten. The Eirdkilrs came straight for the top of the wall—the nearest foothold in Highcliff Motte—though some directed their descent toward the muddy streets below. Every time one plummeted from the cliff, the distance they dropped lessened, the falls turning from fatal to bone-shattering. And, inevitably, to jarring yet not incapacitating.

  Then came the moment an Eirdkilr fell five yards to slam into the stone parapet just next to the cliff. The giant rose, roaring a battle cry, and reached for the axe on his back. Koltun sent a bolt through the barbarian’s eye and dropped him where he stood.

  But in that moment and the seconds required to reload, another Eirdkilr dropped onto the wall. Just one, yet he landed unharmed and had time to draw a club before he, too, died beneath a crossbow bolt.

  Another, and another, and still more. Two became four, then six. Every time a Screaming Howler dropped an enemy, another dropped onto the wall. One Eirdkilr lived long enough to bring his club smashing down onto the back of a Legionnaire’s helmet. The Legionnaire fell without ever taking his eyes off the battle below him, skull and brains pulped, joined a heartbeat later by the Eirdkilr as Koltun’s bolt took the giant in the eye. Another Eirdkilr landed on the wall, crushing his falling comrade beneath his immense bulk. When he stood, his gaze locked on Koltun and the Screaming Howlers. Roaring a battle cry, he raised his spear to throw.

  Time slowed to a crawl as Koltun’s eyes followed the weapon’s path. On his knees, crossbow laid across his leg, he had no time to throw himself aside as the spear hurtled straight toward his chest.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A heavy shield suddenly loomed large in front of Koltun, so close he could almost feel the thunk of the Eirdkilr’s spear punching through. Shards of wood exploded beneath the impact and splinters showered Koltun’s face, hands, and breastplate. The glittering steel spearhead stopped half a hand’s breadth from the tip of his nose.

  Lieutenant Vorris raced past the kneeling Koltun, discarding his shield and drawing his Legion-issue short sword in one smooth move. He crossed the distance to the Eirdkilr before the giant recovered from his throw and drove the blade into the barbarian’s armpit. The Eirdkilr howled as blood gushed from the fatal wound. Tearing the sword free, Lieutenant Vorris spun, tossing the giant off the wall, an
d turned to face the next enemy leaping onto the wall.

  Koltun’s bolt dropped the enemy before he could swipe at Lieutenant Vorris, and the Lieutenant cut down the next. A handful of Legionnaires charged past the Screaming Howlers and joined combat with the Lieutenant. But even as they did, Koltun knew the tide of battle had shifted. The seconds they’d just spent trying to keep the enemy clear of the wall had given more Eirdkilrs time to reach the streets of Highcliff Motte.

  “Thog, how many?” he shouted over his shoulder as he loosed his next bolt. “How many got in?”

  “Ten or twelve,” came the answering call, just before a shrieking steel-tipped missile hurtled toward another Eirdkilr, pinioning the giant to the cliff face. “And more every second!”

  Koltun growled a curse, tearing his eyes away from the chaos near the cliff wall long enough to glance around. For the first time, he felt the BOOOM of the ram hammering at the gate. He’d been so focused on picking his targets he hadn’t paid attention to the rest of the battle. If the Eirdkilrs had already reached the gate, it meant the last of the alcohol had been used. The stones could only do so much damage against the shield-bearing giants protecting their comrades wielding the ram.

  It’s time! The thought sent a shudder of instinctive fear coursing through him. The end had come sooner than he’d have liked—the women and children had barely had half a day to flee—but now that it was here, he could avoid the inevitable no longer.

  Though it went against his training and instinct, Koltun forced himself not to reload his crossbow after loosing his next bolt. Instead, he rose and spun toward Thog. “We’re pulling back, now!”

  Thog’s eyes flew wide, making his broad face appear even rounder. He, like the rest of the Screaming Howlers, had been awaiting this order—Koltun had briefed them all on his plan to get as many Legionnaires out alive as possible the moment Captain Hadrick had ridden out the gate. His entire plan had hinged on the Captain’s absence. Now, all that remained was to execute it.