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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Go!” Koltun shouted. “I’ll get the Lieutenant! You know what to do!”

  Without hesitation, Thog turned and raced off along the wall, shouting to the Screaming Howlers. Koltun spun back to where Vorris and the handful of Legionnaires fought the Eirdkilrs. The battle was going poorly. Two of the six Legionnaires had fallen, and the remaining four—including Vorris—found themselves facing more than half a dozen of the giants. The Eirdkilrs hadn’t yet managed to draw their weapons but they did damage enough with empty hands. Their massive fists and boots pounded at the Legionnaires’ shields, driving the soldiers back, back.

  An Eirdkilr grasped a Legionnaires’ shield and wrenched it from the man’s hands. Lieutenant Vorris’ flashing short sword cut down the giant before he could turn the shield against its wielder, but another Eirdkilr drove a massive fist into the Legionnaire’s exposed face. The man’s head snapped back with bone-shattering force and the soldier crumbled like a dropped sack of rocks.

  “Go!” Caela’s shout thundered in Koltun’s ear. A bolt whistled past his head and slammed into one of the Eirdkilrs, accompanied by two more. The last two Eirdkilrs on the wall fell beneath the swords of Lieutenant Vorris and the pair of Legionnaires still standing, but even as the giants’ bodies slumped, more dropped onto the wall.

  Koltun darted forward and grasped Lieutenant Vorris’ sword arm. Though his height set him at a disadvantage, he had strength enough to drag the officer backward. Just in time to save Lieutenant Vorris from being crushed by an Eirdkilr jumping down from the cliff. The giant bore the last two Legionnaires to the ground, wrapping massive arms around their bodies and crushing them to death beneath his mighty muscles.

  Stunned by the sudden death of his men, Lieutenant Vorris gave no resistance as Koltun dragged him away from the eastern cliff and toward the nearest staircase. Only when Koltun started down the stairs did the officer snap back to the present.

  “Where are you going?” Lieutenant Vorris tore his arm from Koltun’s grip. “We need to—”

  “We need to sound the retreat!” Koltun roared over the din of battle. “The only way we get out of this alive is if we fall back. You know that as well as I do!”

  Lieutenant Vorris looked as if he wanted to retort, but the screams of his men and the howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs now fighting to gain a foothold on the wall silenced his protest.

  “But Cap—”

  “Captain Hadrick isn’t here!” Koltun snapped. “He put you in charge of the Legionnaires here in his absence. That means it falls to you to make the decision that will keep as many of them alive as possible. Them, and the civilians fighting alongside them.”

  A high-pitched shriek echoed from where the Eirdkilrs rampaged through the Legionnaires on the eastern edge of the wall. Koltun’s gut clenched as a giant barbarian closed massive fists around the arm of one of the women conscripted by Captain Hadrick to join the defenses. A young man swung a shovel at the Eirdkilr, but the giant only snarled a curse, tore the pitiful tool from the youth’s hands, and brought it swinging around onto his head with skull-crushing force. Another blow from the shovel knocked the screaming woman senseless.

  “Do it!” Koltun roared. “Do it, or your men are all dead!”

  To his credit, Lieutenant Vorris only hesitated an instant before nodding. “So be it.” Darting past Koltun, he raced down the stairs toward the small group of soldiers and civilians stationed in front of the gate. Panic shone on the faces that turned at his cry—anyone would be terrified knowing what lay outside the gate. Yet, the moment Lieutenant Vorris shouted the order, Ninth Company’s trumpeter tore the cornum from his belt and clapped it to his lips.

  Three high, ringing blasts echoed through Highcliff Motte, cutting through the din of battle, the shrieking of the Eirdkilr war cries, and the thundering of the battering ram. It was a signal every Legionnaire and many civilians recognized—and all knew to dread.

  The retreat had been sounded.

  Civilians flooded away from the ramparts like a spent wave retreating from a seawall. Down the stairs, through the muddy streets, and racing to the north, fleeing the clash of battle, desperate to escape the carnage into which they had been conscripted. The soldiers pulled back more slowly, fighting to maintain cohesion in their ranks as they rushed down the stairs and onto the churned lanes leading northward.

  Shouts and cries from Koltun’s left alerted him to the danger a moment before a Legionnaire cried “Enemies to the east!”

  Koltun spun to face the renewed threat just as the Eirdkilrs burst from the shadows between the houses set along the southeastern corner of the fortress. Ten giant barbarians clad in heavy ice bear pelts raced toward them. They’d abandoned their shields, carrying only spears, axes, and clubs. With a howl of rage, the Eirdkilrs threw themselves onto the Legionnaires clustered around Koltun.

  He managed to take one down with a crossbow bolt to the chest, but the remaining nine carved through the handful of soldiers in their path. Koltun had no time to reload—instead, he reached for the war hammer slung at his hip. His short stature made him all but invisible amidst the ranks of heavily-armored Legionnaires. By the time the nearest Eirdkilr spotted him, the giant had no time to evade the crushing swing. Koltun’s hammer crushed the barbarian’s knee and the man fell shrieking. Another blow caved in his skull, just beneath the metal rim of his helmet.

  Screams and cries of terror echoed all around Koltun. He swiveled to face the next enemy, only to find no more surrounded him. The Eirdkilrs had carved through the ranks of Legionnaires—leaving nearly twenty dead or dying—but instead of finishing off their prey, they headed directly toward the gate.

  Cold dread gripped Koltun’s chest in a vise of iron. The moment they got the gate open, the Eirdkilrs would flood into Highcliff Motte, a tide of blood and death.

  We’d just damned well better not be here when they do!

  He’d half-turned to race up the street, when the glint of metal caught his eyes. Ice froze in his lungs as he caught sight of the heavy crossbow lying in the mud and blood, amidst a pile of corpses. Two steps brought him to the side of his fallen Screaming Howler—too late. An Eirdkilr axe had cleaved Nouth’s skull in two, and Koltun’s gorge rose at the horrible mess where the man’s face had been.

  “Kolt!” Burgo’s voice echoed in the distance. “Kolt, we’ve got to pull back!”

  Grief twisted in Koltun’s chest, but he forced himself to stand, to turn away from his fallen comrade. He paused only long enough to scoop up Nouth’s crossbow, then raced up the street toward the fleeing Legionnaires.

  His short legs struggled through the deep mud, but he had only a few score yards to run before he reached the re-formed shield wall of the retreating Legionnaires and joined Burgo and Caela. To the north, scores of undisciplined soldiers fled pell-mell, but the professional soldiers—men like Lieutenant Enthrak and Lieutenant Vorris—kept the majority in line. They fled the wall with all the speed they could muster without letting the situation turn into a full flight.

  Koltun and five of his Screaming Howlers kept pace with the rearmost ranks. Reloading proved difficult on the move, forcing them to slow in their retreat to span their heavy weapons. Despite the tension coiling in Koltun’s gut, no Eirdkilrs appeared in the darkness…yet.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Koltun spotted a handful of figures darting among the buildings, carrying torches to set the wood and thatch homes ablaze. The structures of stone and wattle-and-daub wouldn’t catch fire, but even a few burning buildings could slow down the enemy, provide smoke to cover the retreat.

  “Sarge!” Thundering hooves echoed to his right, and Koltun spun in time to see Wallis galloping toward him, a half-dozen riderless horses in tow. The youngest Screaming Howler reined in just behind the ranks of soldiers.

  Koltun, Caela, and Burgo cut through the retreating lines and raced toward the nearby horses. Burgo lifted Koltun into the saddle with a grunt of effort. Any other time, Koltun might have taken offense at b
eing manhandled thus, but he’d long ago learned to put aside his pride for the sake of survival. Rather than wasting precious seconds scrambling to mount up—seconds that could cost him and his men their lives—he’d found this simple, effective, if undignified, solution.

  Burgo cast a dark glance at the second crossbow hanging from Koltun’s shoulder. Koltun gave him a sad shake of his head. “Nouth.”

  Burgo’s face twitched into a frown as he mounted up. “Damn! Rock’ll take it hard.”

  Koltun grimaced as he kicked his horse into motion. Rock and Nouth had been far more than just friends; that would be a painful loss, indeed.

  But at the moment, he had no time for grief. Survival first.

  He and his Screaming Howlers galloped through the muddy streets, heading toward the firebrand-wielding figures. The light of a burning building silhouetted Thog’s broad frame as he snatched something from Gladabar’s pocket and hurled it along with his torch onto a nearby thatched roof. Fires sprang to life instantly, consuming the sodden thatch and filling the air with thick plumes of black smoke.

  “No!” Gladabar wailed. “That was my finest rum!”

  “Just be thankful you’re alive to whine about it,” Thog rumbled back.

  “Thog, Glad, let’s go!” Koltun shouted.

  Wallis reined in his string of horses next to the two men, who scrambled into their saddles without hesitation. Koltun galloped onward until he found Sadras and Madden setting fire to buildings near the north gate, and repeated the order. Less than ten minutes after they had abandoned the wall, the Screaming Howlers rode out the north gate into the darkness of the Cliffpass.

  Dread twisted in Koltun’s stomach as he glanced behind him. Fires raged inside the fortress, filling the air with an eerie orange brilliance made dark and ominous by the rising smoke.

  For the first time in Legion history, Highcliff Motte had fallen.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Koltun dug his heels into his horse’s ribs, sending the beast charging up the trail. He rode only a few score yards before reining in and scrabbling down from the saddle. He paused only long enough to lift another quiver of bolts from his saddlebags before he raced behind an outcropping of rocks and hurried to reload.

  The rest of the Screaming Howlers reached him before he’d settled a bolt into his crossbow’s cradle. Nine soldiers hurried to dismount; one, Rock, moved more slowly, laboring beneath a great weight. Koltun knew that burden all too well. He hadn’t had to say a word to the man—Rock had seen Nouth fall.

  “Go,” he told Rock. “Get to Dayn and let him know we’re coming fast.”

  Rock’s eyes were glassy, almost unfocused, and he gave a barely-conscious nod before trotting up the trail.

  Koltun contemplated sending Wallis after him—they needed to alert the Arch-Guardian to the impending arrival of the fleeing Legionnaires and the Eirdkilrs that would soon pursue. But Wallis was needed here. Every one of the Screaming Howlers was. It fell to them to cover the Legionnaires’ retreat and keep any Eirdkilrs off the soldiers’ backs. Sending Rock was the best way to give the man a chance to grieve the loss of the man he’d loved. The rest of them would have time to mourn their comrade when the battle was over, but one look at Rock had told Koltun keeping the soldier here would be a liability.

  Turning away from the departing Screaming Howler, Koltun turned back toward the trail below. A steady stream of Legionnaires poured out of the fortress’ north gate, silhouetted in the light of the burning huts and buildings in the stronghold they now abandoned. Lieutenant Vorris stood beside the gate and shouted encouragement to the Legionnaires guarding the rear of the column.

  The soldiers at the front of the line hurried as fast as they could, weighed down as they were by heavy armor, shields, and weapons. Behind them ran the civilians—miners from East Silver Shaft and the craftsman and laborers that had lived and worked in Highcliff Motte their entire lives—the men, women, and youths that had survived the battle thus far.

  But near the back of the column, moving far more slowly, came the Menders with their assistants and the soldiers that had volunteered to help with the wounded. Legionnaires with bloody bandages around their heads carried canvas stretchers upon which lay those too gravely injured to move under their own power. Koltun caught sight of Private Ardem, his face a mess of bruises, helping a Legionnaire with a broken leg hop up the trail. The soldiers moved past the Screaming Howlers position at a steady pace—too slow for the nervous anxiety simmering in Koltun’s gut, but the best he could hope for.

  At the rear, still inside the walls of Highcliff Motte, Lieutenant Vorris and two twelve-man platoons stood ready to face any Eirdkilrs that came howling through the smoke and flames. The solid shield wall would keep the slower-moving of the retreating soldiers and civilians safe from the enemy that they expected to see at any moment.

  The stream of soldiers and civilians through the gate slowed and stopped, until only smoke and flames were visible in Highcliff Motte. Lieutenant Vorris shouted the order to “Fall back!” With precision attained over years of discipline, the Legionnaires marched backwards. A fighting retreat was among the most difficult maneuvers an army could attempt. Trying to maintain unit cohesion while moving in reverse could be nearly impossible. Even one stumble could shatter the solid shield wall, leaving gaps for an advancing enemy to exploit.

  That was where Koltun and the Screaming Howlers came in. Their position at the rocky outcropping just fifty yards from the fortress’ northern wall gave them a perfect vantage point to set up their archers’ nest. Any Eirdkilrs that came through that gate would find themselves facing the shrieking, steel-tipped bolts. Their crossbows would buy Lieutenant Vorris’ rear guard a chance to flee.

  Lieutenant Vorris’ rear guard reached the wall and marched through, slowly pulling back up the trail while struggling to maintain their formation. The gap between their shields and the gate widened. Five feet became ten, twenty, thirty.

  Come on! Tension knotted Koltun’s shoulders and sweat streamed down his face. His eyes locked on the swirling, smoky shadows visible through the open gate. He expected Eirdkilrs to boil from the fiery inferno at any moment. Setting fire to the fortress’ buildings would only delay the enemy, not stop them.

  The Legionnaires’ steady retreat continued. Twenty yards. Thirty. Forty. The soldiers drew abreast of the Screaming Howlers’ position.

  “Get out of here!” Koltun shouted at Lieutenant Vorris without taking his eyes from the gate. “We’ll hold them as long as we can.”

  “No way you can fight them just the ten of you!” Lieutenant Vorris’ voice rang with a note of steel. “Let me leave men to guard your—”

  “Go!” Koltun rounded on the officer. “We’ve got horses to get us out of here, but you’ve got to cover ground on foot. Get your men up to the Arch-Guardian’s position now! The sooner we reach him, the sooner we can cut off the enemy’s advance!”

  Lieutenant Vorris’ face hardened and he looked ready to argue. A loud twang from Caela’s crossbow cut him off. A bolt shrieked down the trail toward the gate, its piercing whistle silenced as it thunked into solid flesh. Koltun snapped his gaze back in the direction of the enemy in time to see an Eirdkilr slump to the trail, Caela’s bolt embedded in his left eye.

  “You heard the Sergeant!” Lieutenant Vorris shouted. “Get a move on!”

  To their credit, the Legionnaires of the rear guard obeyed in an instant. They broke into a fast march, heavy armor and shields notwithstanding, charging up the trail in pursuit of their fleeing comrades and the civilians. The clatter of steel and the clanking of weapons echoed off the high stone walls of the Cliffpass as they hurried to follow their Lieutenant’s orders.

  Only Lieutenant Vorris hesitated. “Kolt—”

  “Your men need you, Vorris,” Koltun’s voice cracked like a whip. “We’ve got this.” He punctuated his sentence by sending a bolt shrieking downhill toward an enemy that boiled out of the swirling smoke and flames. The Eirdkilr drop
ped without a sound, bolt driven deep into his throat.

  “Swordsman guide your aim!” The thumping of heavy boots and the clanking of armor told Koltun Lieutenant Vorris had heeded his order.

  Good man. Koltun nodded to himself. It didn’t matter that he was a Sergeant and Vorris a Lieutenant; a smart soldier recognized the value of experience and expertise—both of which Koltun had aplenty, despite his lower rank. In the heat of battle, when a split second could mean the difference between life and death, the best officers were the ones who could heed the advice of their subordinates. He’s our best hope of getting out of this alive.

  But first, they had to buy the Legionnaires a fighting chance. It would take the slower-moving civilians and wounded soldiers at least half an hour to reach Arch-Guardian Dayn’s position. Thirty minutes—a bloody long time when facing Eirdkilrs.

  “Bolt check!” Koltun called. His Screaming Howlers sounded off on how full or empty their quivers were. Including the fresh quiver he’d plucked from his saddlebags, they currently had the better part of two hundred bolts between the ten of them.

  Two hundred against more than two thousand. Koltun gritted his teeth. Not the sort of odds I’d favor on a good day.

  “Listen up, lads!” Koltun never took his eyes off the open gate. “Until we can get fresh quivers, we’ve got to make every bolt count. That means you call each shot. One bolt, one kill, got it?”

  “One bolt, one kill!” the others shouted back. It was the unofficial motto of the Screaming Howlers, but one each of them took utterly seriously. Their slower reload time—less than half the speed of a longbow—forced them to prioritize accuracy over rate of fire. Even young Wallis, the youngest and newest of their small company, had spent the better part of three months in daily practice until he could hit the bull’s eye from two hundred yards ninety-five times out of a hundred.