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

by Andy Peloquin

  The clamor fell quickly silent, and hundreds of eyes filled with panic, fear, and worry turned toward him.

  “A storm is coming.” Koltun stared out across the sea of pale, dust-covered, terrified faces. “The Eirdkilrs are behind us, but they are not our greatest threat. The storm that will sweep through the Cliffpass will kill us as surely as our enemy will, so we must find shelter. Our only hope of salvation now is to reach Hafoldarholl!”

  Gasps of surprise echoed among the civilians and soldiers alike. Hafoldarholl was a place of death, one some considered cursed. Yet at the moment, it was their only hope.

  “We must stand together!” Koltun shouted again. “We must not give in to the panic and fear, but we must stay strong. Only by banding together will we survive the storm that is coming. So hurry! Hurry up the mountain to safety, before it is too late for all of us!”

  Lieutenant Vorris moved first. He marched through the ranks of soldiers and strode up the Cliffpass, moving past Koltun without looking back. Even stripped of his officer’s stripes, he was a leader. Legionnaires—those who had trained and fought at his side—followed, and their comrades did likewise. Within the space of two minutes, the entire train of survivors, soldier and civilian alike, surged up the mountain pass.

  Koltun didn’t bother to look for Captain Hadrick. He didn’t need the officer’s approval to lead the soldiers and civilians to safety. If the Captain wanted to object, he could do so. But who would listen? Every man and woman here knew that their survival depended on reaching shelter and safety before the storm hit.

  The winds began to howl through the Cliffpass, shrieking, bitingly cold. The smell of rain hung thick in the air, and soon fat drops of rain splattered the column of Princelanders climbing toward shelter. Then came the sleet—icy, frozen, slushy, turning the ground to mud and slithering down the backs of every civilian and soldier struggling up the trail. The winds grew faster, slicing through cloaks, robes, and jackets. Numbness set into Koltun’s hands and feet, yet he forced himself onward.

  The day grew gloomy, turning almost as dark as night as the storm clouds closed in around the fleeing Princelanders. Sleet turned to snow, white and soft yet carried on a terrible, shrieking wind. Falling snow stung Koltun’s eyes, pelted his face, built into a thick layer that covered his horse, his helmet, his legs, and every exposed part of his body.

  “Come on!” he roared into the howling wind. “We’re almost there!”

  He had no idea how far off they were from Hafoldarholl, but the people around him needed to know they had a chance of reaching safety, shelter from the storm. If they lost hope, they would die. He had to keep them hoping and fighting.

  Upward they climbed, into a world of swirling white, shrieking wind, and stinging cold. Koltun hunched lower in his cloak but could find no way to keep out the chill. He was losing sensation in his fingers and toes, his boots filling with water from snow melted by what little heat his body could generate. When he glanced back, he could barely see five yards, and the way ahead was drowned out in a sea of snow.

  Desperation thrummed within him, and his cold-numbed mind struggled to think clearly. He tried to calculate how far they’d come, how far they had left to go to reach the long-ago destroyed stronghold of the Eirdkilrs. With the wind screaming in his ears and the world a blur of chill and snow, he had no way to know for sure. It could be a hundred yards or five miles.

  But one thing he did know for certain: they had to keep moving. If they stopped, they died.

  Gritting his teeth, he hunched lower in the saddle, shielding his face from the wind and snow. All around him, the marching soldiers and civilians had it far worse than he. They had to face the storm on their feet, while he rode. For all his exhaustion and cold, they had to be feeling twice the misery. And they struggled on, determined to keep going until they reached safety—for their families, friends, and comrades.

  Then he saw it: a towering monolith of black stone, far too sharp and angular to be a rocky peak.

  Hope rose within Koltun with the heat of a raging fire. He’d seen that monolith on his journey to Highcliff Motte. An ancient monolith—raised by the Serenii, some said—of obsidian black that stood guard over Hafoldarholl.

  We’re almost there!

  The obelisk loomed a few dozen yards in the distance, barely visible through the swirling snow. But that meant they would reach the stronghold at any minute.

  And there it was: a fortress of crudely worked stone, with a crumbled wall encircling it. Koltun had never seen anything as beautiful as the hideous, squat fortress.

  “Hurry!” Koltun reined in his horse and turned to those behind him. “Get in and out of the storm!”

  The civilians and soldiers obeyed, all too glad to get out of the teeth of the wind and the swirling snow. Koltun’s heart leapt as he sat in his saddle, too stubborn to dismount and seek shelter until every one of his people—not only his Screaming Howlers, but the Legionnaires and civilians he had determined to protect—were safe.

  Though the cold seeped into his bones and sapped all feeling from his limbs, hope filled his belly with glowing warmth. They had reached shelter from the storm’s fury—a fury that, for a little while at least, would keep the enemy at bay.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  The wind howled and screamed through the Cliffpass, battering at Hafoldarholl’s stone walls like the fists of some mighty colossus. All within the crumbled ruins of the fortress sat in nervous silence, hunkered down within robes, cloaks, blankets, seeking any warmth they could find. Ragged gaps in the roof and walls did little to keep out the cold, but at least they had meager shelter from the wind and falling snow.

  Koltun couldn’t help feeling the same feeling of subdued nervousness as he strode through the huddled survivors of Highcliff Motte. He’d never believed more than four hundred people—many small children among them—could be so silent. Few words were spoken among the civilians. Women and children clung to sons, husbands, or fathers who had escaped the assault. Or, more often than not, mourned those fallen in the battle. Even the Legionnaires said nothing, save for the occasional order passed down through the ranks.

  Koltun’s path led toward the largest of the entrances to Hafoldarholl. The high stone arch looked ready to collapse—a condition shared by the rest of the fortress. How it had endured this many storms, he couldn’t know. The Eirdkilrs that built it centuries ago had sorely lacked the Princelanders’ architectural and engineering skills. However, as long as the walls remained standing and the dome-shaped roofs held, he wouldn’t complain. The old, drafty stronghold with its wide corridors, towering archways, and cold stone floors was the best he could ask for at the moment.

  He marched through the archway and into the small side chamber—an antiquated kitchen, judging by the stone tables, rotted wooden shelves, and recessed firepit—where he’d quartered his Screaming Howlers. He wanted to be certain his crossbowyers were close at hand should the Eirdkilrs attack.

  “Bugger me with a thorn bush!” Gladabar shivered and pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders. “All this bloody cold, and me without my flask.”

  “What d’you think the odds are that the storm freezes the Eirdkilrs, too?” Sadras asked his brothers.

  Madden grunted. “About the same as the odds of you sprouting wings and flying away.”

  Sadras lifted his arms and flapped vigorously, then gave a wry shake of his head. “Damn!”

  Koltun rolled his eyes. The three brothers might be damned fine soldiers, but no one could accuse them of being the smartest bunch.

  Gladabar’s eyes darted to Koltun. “What d’you think, Sarge?” He shifted aside to make room on the stone next to him. “What are the chances they’ll come howling through the storm like ice monsters?”

  Koltun gave a little shrug. “They’re human, too, aren’t they?” Even clad in their thick ice bear furs, their bodies couldn’t possibly be accustomed to temperatures this harsh. “Blizzard like this, it stops everything in its tr
acks. Nothing could survive this out in the open.” He shook his head. “No, the bastards will be hunkering down and waiting out the storm.”

  “At least they don’t have the fine fare we do,” Thog rumbled, his teeth chattering with every word, and his hands shaking as he lifted his share of the salted pork dished out to the Screaming Howlers. “We’re sitting here in our shelter, feasting like kings while they’re huddling in the cold.” The biting edge to his tone was matched by the look of disdain on his face as he gnawed on the leathery strip of meat.

  The broad Praamian’s words deepened Koltun’s worries. He’d just gotten back from a quiet conversation with Lieutenant Enthrak—Captain Hadrick’s new second-in-command after Lieutenant Vorris’ demotion. Enthrak had updated him on the sorry state of their supplies. The wagons with the wounded had carted away just enough supplies to keep two hundred and fifty women and children fed for a week. Add on more than two hundred hungry soldiers and civilians, and the supplies would run out in half that time. The nearest haven, the Legion-occupied Myrr city of Kaldrborg, was a full six days’ hard marching away. They’d have to go on half-rations to keep everyone fed long enough to reach safety.

  If we’ve even got a chance of getting that far. Koltun grimaced. Food won’t be our biggest problem once the Eirdkilrs come for us.

  And come they would, of that he was certain. Much as he wished the blizzard would freeze the barbarians to death, he had no doubt they would resume their pursuit the moment the storm abated. If they’d cleared the Cliffpass as Connell and Wallis reported, they’d be no more than a day or two behind. Considering the barbarians could cover ground twice as fast as the slow-moving women, children, and ox-drawn carts carrying the wounded, it was only a matter of time before they caught up. When that happened, the already ugly situation would turn downright hideous fast.

  Worst of all, he could do nothing but wait. He couldn’t send someone for help, not in this blizzard. He couldn’t hurry the civilians along or exhort the Legionnaires to march faster. He could only sit within these four stone walls, trapped by the fierce, shrieking storm, and count the passage of time by the sluggish beats of his heart.

  A nearby sound caught Koltun’s attention. Lingram lay curled up on the floor a few paces away from the Screaming Howlers, wrapped in the meager blankets Koltun had scrounged up for him. He’d thought the youth sleeping, but the tearful snuffling from within the bedroll told him otherwise.

  Sorrow twisted in Koltun’s gut. He could only imagine the youth’s suffering—he’d lost his father and brothers in the battle, and had no mother to speak of. He was alone, like so many others, with no one to console him. No one but Koltun and the Screaming Howlers.

  He looked to Rock. The man hadn’t spoken a word since fleeing Highcliff Motte. His eyes were sunken, surrounded by dark circles. He stared down at the crossbow in his lap, his fingers toying with the steel cable and arms, the wooden stock, the springs and levers that operated it. That crossbow was all he had left of Nouth. Much as Koltun hated the idea, the time would come when Rock would have to be parted from it.

  For now, though, he had other options. Standing, he moved toward Lingram’s blankets. “You awake, lad?” He spoke in a soft, gentle voice, not wanting to startle the youth—or let him know he’d been overheard crying.

  Lingram stiffened, and his blankets shifted as he scrubbed at his face. “Y-Yes, Sergeant,” he said in a tearful voice.

  “Good.” Koltun marched around to stand in front of the boy. Lingram had managed to wipe away the moisture, but his cheeks were red and eyes puffy from crying. “Come with me, but keep it quiet. Don’t want to disturb the little ‘uns.” Some of the children in the main room had fallen asleep.

  He led Lingram out of the kitchen and down a short hallway that led deeper into the bowels of the ancient fortress. The two of them moved through rooms crowded with sleeping, shivering, or quietly conversing men and women, cautious to step lightly so as not to disturb those fortunate enough to find rest in the storm and fear. He didn’t stop until they reached a long room that he’d decided had to be the chieftain’s hall. The holes in the domed roof made it a bad place to shelter, but the empty room had plenty of space for what he intended for Lingram.

  “Here’s good.” Koltun turned to Lingram. “Time to begin your training, lad.”

  Confusion twisted the youth’s face. “T-Training?”

  “Aye.” Koltun swung the crossbow down from his back and held it out to the young man. “If you’re to be a Screaming Howler, you’ll need to know how to use one of these.”

  Lingram’s eyes widened and he made no move to take the crossbow, simply stared at the weapon in surprise and incredulity.

  “Take it.” Koltun shoved it into Lingram’s hands with enough force the boy nearly stumbled. “Thing like this requires a delicate touch, but not so delicate you don’t bloody touch it!”

  Lingram wrapped his arms around the crossbow, struggling to balance it awkwardly.

  “Keeper’s beard!” With a snort, Koltun snatched the weapon back from the youth, turned it, and shoved it into his hands. “That’s how you hold the damned thing. Now, can you lift it?”

  Lingram brought it up to his shoulder, as he’d seen the Screaming Howlers do scores of times over the last few days.

  “Not bad, not bad.” Koltun nodded approval. “Just slide your left hand forward, support the front of the thing more, and twist your wrist a little to get a better grip on the trigger.” He helped the youth adjust his hold. “There you go, now you’re ready to put a bolt in your enemy.”

  Lingram stared down the length of the weapon, a look of wonder on his face. In that moment, all thoughts of his loss, pain, and sorrow faded.

  Koltun felt the tug of a smile on his lips. Youth could so easily forget that which their elders wrestled with. At least Lingram could find surcease from misery for a few minutes.

  “Now, time to practice spanning the thing.” He drew the goat’s foot lever from his belt. “Want me to show you how to use this?”

  “I-I think I’ve seen it done enough times.” Lingram took the lever almost reverently, set it into place, and hooked the string. “Like that?”

  “Good.” Koltun inclined his head. “Now what?”

  Lingram rested the butt of the weapon against his upper leg and gripped the goat’s foot lever with one hand. “Now I pull, like this.” He hauled, but the lever barely moved. “Like this!” He tried again with similar results. Though he pulled until he was red in the face, he could only partially move the string.

  “Easy, lad, easy.” Koltun patted the youth’s arm and took the crossbow from him. “Few men are strong enough to span these things on the first try.” With a pull on the lever, he spanned the string. “But they’re capable of putting a crossbow bolt in an ant’s bunghole from three hundred yards out.”

  Lingram’s face fell. “You make it look so easy. All of you do.”

  “Aye.” Koltun nodded. “But that’s because none of the Screaming Howlers are let out of the training yard until they can empty two full quivers of bolts in the space of a quarter-hour.”

  Even now, all these years later, he remembered the bone-deep exhaustion of reloading the crossbow sixty times. He’d believed a rate of four bolts per minute ridiculously easy—the Agrotorae could draw and loose an arrow every three or four seconds—until he had spanned the custom-made crossbows. The Secret Keeper-crafted steel cables and arms that gave them their above-average power also made them damned hard to span, even with the goat’s foot levers.

  “Don’t worry about it, lad.” Koltun patted the young man’s forearm. “Just keep practicing, and you’ll get stronger.”

  “No I won’t.” Shadows darkened Lingram’s expression. “We won’t live long enough.”

  Koltun’s brow furrowed. “Don’t be saying such things. It’s bad, but—”

  “It’s worse than bad!” Lingram’s voice rose, the fire edging his words a match for the blaze in his eyes. “The moment this
storm lets up, the Eirdkilrs will be after us. There’s no way we can get out of the Cliffpass before they reach us, and there are too many of them to fight. And when they come…” His voice cracked and tears brimmed and slipped down his cheeks. When he managed to speak again, his words came out barely above a whisper. “When they come, there’ll be nothing I can do to stop them from killing everyone, like they killed Father, Jarren, and Ronet.”

  “Nothing you can do?” Koltun raised an eyebrow. “Is it my imagination, or did I see a young man who looked an awful lot like you helping to defend the walls of Highcliff Motte? Or is there some other Lingram I haven’t yet met?”

  “You know what I mean!” Lingram brushed the tears angrily from his eyes. “I’m just learning to swing a sword properly, and I’m too weak to use a crossbow, too small to stand in the Legion shield wall.”

  “Ahh, so that’s what this is about.” Koltun nodded. “You think being small and weak makes you somehow less important, is that it?”

  Lingram’s eyes dropped to Koltun, a full head and shoulders shorter than him, and suddenly his face reddened with embarrassment. “I-I…” His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

  “Listen to me.” Reaching up, Koltun grabbed the young man’s collar and hauled him down until they were nose to nose. “Better yet, look at me. I might not look like much, but ask any of the Screaming Howlers, and they’ll agree that I’m twice the Legionnaire at half the size. It’s not the length of your arms or the speed of your legs that matters, just the courage in your heart. And I’ve seen you, lad. You’ve got courage enough to spare. So don’t you ever let me hear you say you can’t do something again, is that understood?”

  “Y-Yes, Koltun—”

  “Sergeant!” Koltun thundered, giving the young man’s collar a shake.

  “S-Sergeant Koltun,” Lingram stammered, swallowing hard.