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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Aye,” Connell rumbled. He tugged at the patch covering his left eye—the explosion had blown it aside, revealing a nasty mess of scars mangling the flesh of his empty socket—and brushed aside a shard of stone caught beneath. A tiny trickle of blood leaked from the scarred flesh, joining the droplets of crimson mingling with the dust staining his face. He had been with Koltun and the other Screaming Howlers facing the Eirdkilrs attacking from the cliff walls within Highcliff Motte.

  The Eirdkilrs that had killed Nouth.

  The image of Nouth’s split skull and mangled face flashed through Koltun’s mind, and acid rose to his throat once more. Instinctively, he sought out Rock. The soldier still remained in his saddle, crossbow resting across his lap. The explosion had set his horse skittering, and the sudden movement had snapped him from his anguish. Momentarily. Even now, Koltun could see the shadows creeping into the man’s eyes, the hunch of his shoulders growing more pronounced as he retreated inward. Rock had always been a quiet one, keeping chiefly to himself. Koltun hadn’t so much as heard the man laugh. Until Nouth. The blond, kindly soldier had wormed his way into Rock’s heart. They had been inseparable on and off the battlefield.

  Nouth’s death would hit the man hard. Koltun knew he needed to speak to the man, to offer what words of comfort he could, but not until they were well away from this place.

  He turned to Caela, then signaled with his eyes toward the mourning soldier. “Keep an eye on him,” he told her in a quiet voice.

  “Aye, so I will.” Caela nodded once. Rock was Black Squad, just as Nouth had been. Caela would do what she could to ameliorate his pain, doubtless by keeping him too busy to think about the loss of the man he’d loved.

  The rest of the Screaming Howlers mounted up, most too lost in their grief, surprise, or dread to speak. All of them cast dark glances at the one empty saddle—Nouth’s.

  Koltun grabbed the reins of the dead Screaming Howler’s horse and trotted toward Lieutenant Vorris. “This one’s for you, sir.”

  “No.” Lieutenant Vorris shook his head. “I won’t ride while my men walk.” He gestured toward the Legionnaires that still stood in a protective wall between the collapsed Cliffpass and the fleeing civilians. “Use it for the wounded.”

  “All due respect, sir, but I won’t take no for an answer.” Koltun could be as stubborn as the officer. “No one thinks you’re a saddle-sucker.” Infantrymen had a broad range of words to convey their disdain for the arrogant soldiers who served in the Legion cavalry; this was one of the kindest. “But if we’re to get through this alive, we’re going to need our best fighting men in fighting shape when the enemy hits us again. And make no mistake, they will be hitting us. It’s not a question of if they’ll get through our little roadblock, but when. We’ll all need you clear-headed and sharp-eyed when it comes time to call the battle orders. So get on the horse, Lieutenant, and no arguments.”

  Lieutenant Vorris’ jaw set, his eyes going hard. Koltun met the officer’s gaze without flinching. A silent war of wills passed between them.

  Koltun—on the side of common sense—won. Lieutenant Vorris knew as well as he that the march up the Cliffpass would be grueling, but that trek was far from their greatest problem. It was only a matter of time before the enemy cleared the debris and came howling in pursuit. When that happened, the command of their forces would fall to him.

  With a growled curse, Lieutenant Vorris snatched the reins from Koltun’s hand and clambered into the saddle. “Damn you, Kolt!” he growled as he set his horse into a trot.

  “You mean to say ‘Thank you, Kolt’?” Koltun gave him a broad grin, kicking his horse to match the pace the officer’s mount set. “You’re more than welcome, sir.”

  Lieutenant Vorris shook his head. “Any other Sergeant talked to a superior officer that way, they’d be flogged or court-martialed.”

  “Ahh, see, that’s what makes me special!” Koltun waggled his eyebrows. “You’re not exactly my superior, and I’m not any other Sergeant.” He patted his crossbow. “Being one of the Screaming Howlers comes with a few occasional perks. Including the latitude to speak my mind to stubborn officers.”

  “Just be careful where you point that tongue of yours.” Lieutenant Vorris’ eyes darkened. “Captain Hadrick wasn’t exactly fond of you before he left, and he’s going to be pissing blood and fury when he sees us.”

  That sobered Koltun up at once. Not the threat of Captain Hadrick’s ire—he had little to fear from the rotund officer—but at the knowledge that there were women and children still in the Cliffpass ahead.

  “How long, do you think?” he asked.

  “Before we catch up?” Lieutenant Vorris’ expression grew pensive. “Even with half a day’s lead on us, they couldn’t have gotten too far. Given their speed—at best two or three miles per hour, what with the steep climb—they’ve covered maybe twenty-five or thirty miles.” He glanced at the column of soldiers and civilians marching along behind him. “If we push ourselves, we might be able to catch up before they reach Hafoldarholl.”

  Koltun nodded. He’d come to similar conclusions. “That’ll take us all day tomorrow and most of the next day.” He glanced at the sky. Somehow, the moon had dropped dangerously low in the sky. Dawn was perhaps three or four hours off.

  He didn’t know how long it would take to reach Captain Hadrick and the fleeing civilians, given their current state of exhaustion after so many hours of battle. But they couldn’t afford any delay, couldn’t let their wounds and fatigue slow them down.

  The Eirdkilrs would be coming—it was only a matter of time. How fast they moved now could be the difference between life and death.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I don’t like the look of those clouds,” Thog rumbled from his place at Koltun’s left.

  Koltun glanced over his shoulder. Angry storm clouds darkened the entire western half of the sky, crawling toward the pale moon shining low over the eastern horizon. The occasional flicker of lightning shone in the distance.

  “The Lieutenant have any idea when it might hit us?” Koltun asked. His eyes sought out Lieutenant Vorris, who rode at the head of the column. He’d been warning about this storm since before the Eirdkilr attack on Highcliff Motte; if he’d gotten that right, perhaps he might be able to offer some insight into when to expect his prediction to come true.

  “I haven’t had a chance to ask, but I’ll make time when we next stop.” Thog glanced at the sky. Though it was approaching noon, the day was bleak, overcast, filled with shadows as heavy as those darkening the eyes of all the survivors around them. “Whenever that is.”

  Koltun snorted. “You really want to pause for rest given what’s behind us? Just the thought of what’s coming is enough to keep me moving until my legs fall off.”

  “Easy for the riding man to say.” Thog grunted. “Some of us have to use our own two feet to get around.”

  Koltun glanced down at the broad Praamian soldier. Thog had been the first of the Screaming Howlers to volunteer his horse to transport the worst-wounded soldiers. Most of the others in their company had done likewise, and the pace of their progress up the Cliffpass had hastened.

  A part of Koltun had wanted to vacate his saddle and let one of the wounded mount up in his place. He was like Lieutenant Vorris in that way—to him, it felt wrong to ride while the Legionnaires were forced to march in their heavy armor, burdened beneath the weight of their shields, swords, and their comrades.

  But, despite his desire and Thog’s jibe, Koltun knew none of the Screaming Howlers would let him give up his saddle. His short stature wasn’t often a problem, but long-distance travel was one such time. He’d have to march twice the distance to keep up with his comrades. And, not that he’d ever say anything to the others, but the pain in his joints had grown far worse in the last few months. His elbow wasn’t the only injury giving him grief; his long life as a soldier had taken a toll on his hips, back, knees, and shoulders. He wouldn’t put his men’s lives in jeo
pardy by slowing them down, but he knew he couldn’t keep up on foot.

  It was the same struggle Koltun had wrestled with his entire life. He’d barely been accepted into the Legion—and only then because of the extreme dearth of fighting-age men willing to be shipped across the Frozen Sea to fight for the Princelands—and his military career had been mostly spent as an officer’s aide.

  Until General Traighan and the Screaming Howlers. Everything had changed the day he’d been accepted into the special unit of crossbow-wielding soldiers. There, he’d found himself no longer inferior to the men and women serving alongside him. If anything, he’d proven himself their superior—not even Caela could match his accuracy and speed. With the specialized combat training he’d received under the General’s hand-picked instructors, he could kill Eirdkilrs as effectively as any Legionnaire.

  Though it had taken time, the Screaming Howlers around him had come to accept his leadership. Not just because of his years of experience and tactical knowledge gleaned from serving at the side of high-ranked Legion officers. No, they had come to respect him. A strange realization, one he’d never expected to find as a dwarf.

  In Voramis, those with limbs shortened as his were tended to be regarded as a curiosity. No one—not his parents, who’d died from the last wave of Bloody Flux sweeping the city, nor those few friends he’d had in his life before the Legion, even those with whom he’d served for decades before joining the Screaming Howlers—could have predicted that he’d end up as the leader of his own small company of elite soldiers. Least of all him.

  He was keenly aware of his size and the limitations that accompanied it. He’d never permitted it to stop him before—on the contrary, he’d go out of his way to prove that he could out-perform his companions. Yet there were times like this when he had to set aside his fear of what the other Screaming Howlers might think of him. In a battle between his pride and the survival of his comrades, he’d choose the latter every time.

  And so, though it rankled more than he’d care to admit aloud, he brushed off Thog’s remark. “Do the rounds of Crimson Squad and make sure they’re battle-ready. Weapons, ammunition, armor, everything.”

  “Will do.” Thog nodded. “Speaking of, you might want to drop back and find the pack horse carrying our bolts. See exactly what we’ve got left.”

  Koltun grimaced. He’d forgotten to get a proper ammunition count. Reining in, he turned his horse’s head and trotted back down the Cliffpass toward the rear of the column. Soldiers nodded and gave tired salutes as he rode past. Tired and wounded as they might be, they had developed a newfound respect for the small band of Screaming Howlers. All the Legionnaires knew they owed their survival to the crossbowyers.

  Caela nodded silently as Koltun passed Black Squad, and he returned the nod without a word. Rock sat hunched in his saddle, eyes distant, face blank, lost in his own mind. Sadras and Madden didn’t so much as bicker, and Glad had a sorrowful expression. Doubtless he mourned Nouth—and the loss of his liquor stock, sacrificed in the battle to hold the wall.

  Near the rear of the marching line, Koltun found Burgo trudging along beside the pack horse that carried the two wooden chests of crossbow bolts. Sweat streamed down his broad, dust-stained face and soaked his shirt, and he managed a little grunt. “Sarge.”

  “All quiet back here?” Koltun asked.

  “No sign of Connell or Wallis yet.” Burgo shook his head. “There’s that, at least. Then again, with all the dust kicked up in the rear, I’m surprised I can still see.”

  The back of any train of marching soldiers and traveling animals was always the dustiest place—typically reserved for those who’d earned punishments from their superior officers, or the bastard unlucky enough to be posted as rear scout.

  “I’ve got a way to occupy your dusty eyes and mind.” Koltun grinned down at the man. “Distract yourself by counting our remaining supply of bolts. If your brain can handle numbers that big, that is.”

  Burgo gave him a flat look. “I’m sure General Traighan can always find a new, mouthier Sergeant to lead us when this is all over. Just in case something happens to our current officer en route home.” He patted the wooden stock of his crossbow. “You know how unpredictable battle can be.”

  “True.” Koltun’s grin broadened. “Which is why we’ve often heard complaints about insolent soldiers needing to have crossbow bolts pulled out of their arses.”

  Despite the heat, misery, and fatigue, Burgo cracked a dusty smile. “Fair enough.” He wiped away sweat, only adding to the dust on his face. “Give me an hour and I’ll have a tally for you.”

  * * *

  “Thirteen hundred bolts between the eleven of us?” The way Thog’s eyebrows shot up bore a strong resemblance to hairy caterpillars crawling along the side of a boulder. “Damn, those numbers aren’t great.”

  Night had fallen, and the Screaming Howlers sat in a close circle in the darkness, trying not to shiver at the chill that hung thick around the Cliffpass. All around them, soldiers and civilians lay where they had collapsed, too exhausted to seek shelter for the few minutes Lieutenant Vorris had permitted them to rest.

  The Lieutenant had pushed the column hard; Koltun estimated they’d covered the better part of thirty-five miles, more than halfway up the trail toward Hafoldarholl at the peak. Few of the men and women had complained, simply marched in grim silence until they dropped or leaned on each other for support. They all knew what lay behind them.

  No matter how bleak their situation, things would grow far worse when the Eirdkilrs cleared a path through or found a way over the debris blocking off the Cliffpass.

  Koltun returned his attention to the matter at hand. “That’s just under a hundred and twenty apiece.” He scratched his head. “Add that to what you’ve already got in your quivers, and we’ve got enough to whittle down the Eirdkilr numbers nicely.”

  What he didn’t say—what he didn’t need to say, as it was clear by the dark looks in the eyes of those sitting in front of him—was that even if they killed an Eirdkilr with every one of those bolts, they’d still be facing a force far too large to defeat.

  A tense, gloomy silence descended over the Screaming Howlers. No one spoke, no one so much as moved. The remaining crossbowyers lay or leaned without a word, resting in those precious moments between the end of the day’s exertions and the inevitable resumption of their march once Lieutenant Vorris gave the order.

  “S-Sergeant?” A youthful voice, hesitant and nervous, broke the silence.

  Koltun whirled toward the speaker. Lingram stood a few yards away from the Screaming Howlers’ circle. The faint light of the moon shone on his tear-streaked face, revealing eyes red-rimmed from crying. In his hands, he held a quiver of crossbow bolts.

  “I-I picked this up, sir.” The exhausted youth seemed to be struggling beneath the weight of the leather quiver and the half-dozen remaining quarrels within. He stepped forward and held it out to Koltun. “When I saw him go down…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed, cleared his throat, tried again. “I thought maybe you might, you know, need these?”

  A lump rose into Koltun’s throat. Standing, his joints and muscles aching far worse than they had in years, he strode toward the youth. He stared up into Lingram’s face and took the quiver from his hands.

  “Thank you, lad,” he said, his voice quiet. “It’s a brave thing you did, retrieving this, carrying it all this way.”

  Lingram ducked his head, a rush of color rising to his cheeks.

  “Go on.” Koltun gave the boy a gentle shove. “I’m sure your father will be wondering where you are.”

  “My father…” Lingram’s voice cracked, and a fresh stream of tears slipped down his face. “He and my brothers, they didn’t…”

  A sharp elbow edged Koltun in the ribs. When Koltun glanced back, Burgo gave a little shake of his head.

  “Easy, easy.” Koltun took Lingram’s hand and guided him through the Screaming Howlers’ circle, to take a seat at his side.
“You’re one of us now. We’ll keep an eye on you.”

  “Aye, so we will,” Thog rumbled from his place on Lingram’s left side. He rested a hand on the youth’s shoulder.

  Caela stood from her place and moved toward Lingram, gathering the weeping boy into a gentle embrace.

  Turning away from Lingram, Koltun moved to where Rock sat. He held out Nouth’s quiver to the soldier. “He was a good man. And a damned good soldier.” His words stuck in his throat, his lungs squeezing so tight he could barely draw breath. “A Screaming Howler to the end. He’ll be missed, but not forgotten.”

  Rock looked up, his eyes also red-rimmed and filled with shadows. With a silent nod, he took Nouth’s quiver from Koltun’s hand and clutched it in a white-knuckled grip.

  Once again, silence descended over the small camp of crossbowyers, but this time, only the moaning of the night wind disturbed the tension.

  Chapter Twenty

  Lieutenant Vorris gave the order to march shortly after midnight. His command was met with only nominal groaning and grumbling. All managed to rise and move out despite their fatigue. The pain of their wounds, aches, burns, and injuries could not be allowed to slow them down.

  The enemy behind them would not wait for them to recover.

  Two hundred and thirty-three. Koltun took a count of the survivors. Two hundred and thirty-three of what was once closer to three or four hundred.

  Grim dread settled like a weight on his shoulders. Of the one hundred and eleven Legionnaires that made up Ninth Company, only eighty-seven remained. The rest of the exhausted men and women struggling up the Cliffpass were the miners and civilians conscripted by Captain Hadrick.

  Arch-Guardian Dayn had refused to allow the miners working his section of the mine to leave—he needed them to collect the flarequartz that had been used to bring down the cliff on top of the Eirdkilrs. And, unlike everyone else in Highcliff Motte, he didn’t answer to Captain Hadrick. His orders came from far higher up the chain of command.