Koltun watched Thog and Madden ride back up the Cliffpass, his stomach twisting tighter with every fading beat of their horses’ hooves. The two of them rode straight toward the danger—a risk every soldier accepted, but one Koltun never liked ordering others to take. He would much rather go himself, but as Sergeant and commanding officer of the Screaming Howlers, he had his own burdens to bear.
The Screaming Howlers waited until the slow-moving column had disappeared around a bend in the Cliffpass—just in case something went wrong with their plan here, he wanted to be sure no one else would be harmed. Only after the last soldier of Lieutenant Vorris’ rear guard passed from sight did Koltun rise.
Bradon stood as well, and moved toward the nearest cluster of mushrooms. Koltun gestured for the others to remain seated. Better not put more of them at risk than absolutely necessary.
The Secret Keeper apprentice covered his mouth with a sleeve and gestured for Koltun to do likewise. Koltun complied, using an old shirt from his pack. Drawing out a dagger, he handed it to Bradon. The young apprentice accepted the knife with a grateful nod and, crouching next to the toadstool, tapped the blade lightly on the brightly-colored cap.
Koltun’s breath froze in his lungs, and every muscle in his spine went rigid. Nothing happened. The mushroom didn’t break.
“Dry enough?” Koltun asked through the muffling fabric over his mouth.
Bradon handed back the knife without taking his eyes from the mushroom, then reached out to pluck it from the muddy ground. The stem broke without a sound, and the puffy cap remained intact.
Standing, the Secret Keeper apprentice fixed him with a bright grin and a nod. He held up the Widowmaker’s Cap like a prized trophy.
Koltun let out a long, relieved breath and turned to the Screaming Howlers. “Let’s get moving, lads!”
Out came the sacks they had commandeered from among the few supplies hauled away by the first wave of civilians to escape Highcliff Motte. Somehow, Burgo had managed to find two lengths of rope, and Gladabar turned up a small net. Wooden crates—once filled with supplies eaten by the ravenous soldiers—and canvas cloths would serve their purpose here.
Wallis, Lingram, and Connell, the lightest of the Screaming Howlers, were chosen to climb the cliffs to gather the Widowmaker’s Caps growing there—as many as they safely could with the stone walls being wet after the recent rains and sleet. Burgo, Gladabar, and the rest set about gathering the mushrooms that sprouted from the muddy trail and aiding the climbers in collecting the toadstools into the sacks, crates, and netting.
A nasty grin broadened Koltun’s face as he watched his soldiers work alongside the Secret Keeper apprentice.
Until a few hours earlier, he’d had no idea how they could slow down the Eirdkilrs and buy their retreating force more time. The flarequartz had potential to turn the battle in their favor, but there simply wasn’t enough stone in those two barrels—one of which was half-empty—to inflict damage enough to the enemy that outnumbered them.
But now, with the discovery of these mushrooms, Koltun felt the faintest glimmer of hope.
When the Eirdkilrs caught up, they were in for a deadly surprise.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Damn it! Koltun glared down at the pitiful handful of Widowmaker’s Caps they’d collected. Barely two of the sacks had been filled, and they’d been at it for the better part of four hours.
The Widowmaker’s Caps sprouting from the muddy ground had taken less than an hour to collect, along with those clinging to the lower cliffs. That left only those highest up, harder to reach and safely collect. Wallis, Lingram, and Connell were exhausted from the climb, but only Caela and Dannick were light and spry enough to take a turn ascending the cliffs to gather mushrooms. Progress had slowed terribly, until finally Koltun called off the collection with the setting of the sun. No sense risking a broken neck or limb tonight.
Night settled cold and windy over the Cliffpass, and the Screaming Howlers had no fire to push back the chill. Their meager rations disappeared in a few mouthfuls, leaving rumbling stomachs all around. Silence hung thick over the circle of cold, hungry, exhausted Princelanders that sat trying not to shiver in the evening chill. Even Burgo, usually so immune to frost and wind, seemed to be struggling to ignore the chill.
Faint, pale moonlight bathed the faces of the Screaming Howlers, giving them a grim cast. They all knew what awaited them when the sun rose tomorrow. Sooner, perhaps. At any moment, the sound of hoofbeats could echo down the Cliffpass. When that happened, death would come for them.
Koltun tried to think of what to say—something, anything to break the silence and lift his comrades’ spirits—but no words came to him. Instead, he sang a tune, one he’d heard countless times over the years.
He was called to march, brave soldier
To don mail, to take up sword and shield
O’er mountain, hill, stream, and ocean
Unto that hallowed crimson field
At first, he sang the song alone—a mournful tune, typically reserved for Legionnaire funerals. And yet, when he’d first heard it from the lips of his mother, it had rung with a note of joy. A celebration of all the brave soldiers. Men like his father, who had crossed the Frozen Sea to take up the same battle Koltun now fought.
And so he marched, brave soldier
Shoulder to shoulder with brothers true
Head held high and heart made of steel
To pay the warrior’s due
Onward he marched, brave soldier
Through fear and torment and mud
A warrior of iron, unbroken, unbowed
‘Spite battle and rivers of blood
Caela joined in first, her voice beautiful and sonorous, as strong as the woman herself. Burgo’s deep bass tones fleshed out the melody, and the song rose with new vigor, pushing back the darkness around them.
Into impossible fray marched the brave soldier
His shield cracked, his sword now bent
And there beside comrades loyal and true
His strength one last time is spent
To the end he marched, brave soldier
Faced odds beyond hope and foes grim
Fallen to the tempest of fury and rage
The song of death sings out for him
The rest of the Screaming Howlers joined in for the final refrains of the song. Koltun felt his spirits rising in time with the melody, and though the words spoke of sadness and death, warmth brightened within him. These were his soldiers, brave soldiers until the end.
He will march no longer, brave soldier
His body lies still on his shield
Weep for that warrior who gave his last breath
On that hallowed crimson field
March on into peace now, brave soldier
The Keeper’s arms open for thee
Take your place with the Swordsman, he calls
You to stand watch for eternity
Silence descend over the camp as the song came to its end, yet it no longer held the tension of mere minutes earlier. Indeed, the Screaming Howlers seemed to relax, breathing a little easier.
“Doesn’t sound too bad, you know.” Gladabar’s voice broke the stillness first. “Standing watch at the Swordsman’s side for all eternity.”
“A bit dull, if you ask me,” answered Sadras. “All that standing’s rough on your knees, and watching’s damned tiring for your eyes.”
“Only for you old farts,” Gladabar retorted.
“We’re the same age, you idiot!” Sadras snorted. “Give or take those few minutes where Madden and I had a bit of peace before your ugly arse slithered out and ruined everything.”
“And it’s clear you’re feeling those few minutes.” Gladabar’s voice echoed with triumph. “I can stand watch for eternity without whining about my eyes and knees. Might be about time you think about retiring, accepting that you’re officially a doddering old sod.”
“Ugh,” Sadras grunted. “Not this again. I’ve h
ad it—”
“Yes, please, not this again!” Caela cut off Sad’s retort. “If this is going to be my last night on Einan, I damned well don’t want to spend it listening to you two cunts needling on about absolutely nothing.”
“Of course not,” Gladabar replied. “You’d rather be spending it wrapped in the tender embrace of—OW!” A meaty thump echoed. “I think you broke my nose!”
“Better your nose than your neck, which I’m happy to break for you if you don’t shut up,” Caela snapped.
“Watcher’s beard!” Glad gave a little groan. “No need to get so testy about it. It’s not like he’s the first man making doe eyes at you.”
Caela said nothing, which in itself spoke volumes. She’d never had trouble firmly rejecting unwanted advances—sometimes to the point of leaving those doing the advancing bleeding or unconscious if they pushed the matter—but it seemed that things were different when it came to Lieutenant Vorris. Koltun, at least, recognized it, even if she didn’t want to admit it to herself or her uncouth comrades.
“I’m with Sad on this one.” Burgo’s deep voice joined in the conversation. “Standing watch does sound a bit dull, Swordsman or not.” Fabric rustled as he adjusted his heavy cloak. “I’d take the Fehlan afterlife any day. Drinking and feasting for eternity definitely sounds much better to me.”
Wallis voiced his agreement loudly, and grizzled Connell grunted as well.
“What about you, Sarge?” Sadras asked. “What’s your take on the afterlife? Do you buy the Adept’s version of the Swordsman’s honor guard? Or maybe you’d rather the Fehlan’s feasting tables with their gods? Endless eating and drinking sounds damned fine to me.”
The question caught Koltun off-guard. He’d never given much thought to it beyond what had been ingrained into him by the Swordsman’s priests. He’d been too focused on staying alive to contemplate what came after.
“I guess…” He hesitated a moment. It felt odd speaking the words aloud, but these were the only ones with whom he could share it. “I guess I like my mother’s version best.”
He hadn’t thought about it—hadn’t thought about her, not really—in years.
“My mother loved the Maiden above all the other gods,” he said, his voice quiet. “Her laughter, love, innocence, and the spirit of celebration. She tried to live it, too. Made every small occasion in our home something to celebrate. Even when we had nothing special, she found a way to make it feel special. Every chance she got.”
Silence greeted his words. He rarely spoke of his life before the Legion—none of them did—so his Screaming Howlers treasured this glimpse.
“That was her idea of what awaited her in the Sleepless Lands, really.” A smile came unbidden to Koltun’s lips. “A place where we’re surrounded by the ones who love us, celebrating forever. Not the boisterous feasting tables of the Fehlan Seggrholl, but a quiet, cozy home filled with warmth and love and laughter.”
The image of his mother sprang to his mind. Seraphina had been a simple woman, hair tied up with a ribbon, wearing a dress of deep blue, frowning down at the stitches of a frilly dress. Smiling, laughing as she spoke with Dahvynd, her husband. They had never had much—even on his father’s meager Legion pension—but his mother had always done marvels with what they could scrape together.
“So, yeah,” he said, smiling and leaning back against the cliff wall, “that’s what I think I’d like for my afterlife. Simple and happy.”
Again, a quiet settled over the Screaming Howlers. Gone was the tension, their fear and dread momentarily forgotten. In those few minutes, seated among comrades and sharing the darkness, they came close to happy.
* * *
The Screaming Howlers awoke and set to work picking Widowmaker’s Caps before the sun rose over the eastern cliffs. The faint light of dawn had barely brightened the sky and already Wallis, Connell, and Lingram were scaling the cliffs, carefully freeing the poisonous mushrooms from their stony perches.
They moved with new vigor, their energy restored by the night’s rest. The climbers ascended the cliff wall, moving along the face to pluck the mushrooms with far less hesitance.
Bradon and Koltun set about putting his plan to the test. Moving a short distance away, the two of them hurled Widowmaker’s Caps against the cliff walls. As Koltun had feared, the mushrooms had dried overnight, the skin strengthening until they could no longer explode upon impact. No matter how hard they threw the Widowmaker’s Caps, they simply couldn’t get the little toadstools to release their deadly spores. His initial plan of leaving them strewn all down the Cliffpass—to be trampled beneath Eirdkilr feet and thus releasing their deadly spores—wasn’t an option.
“Damn it!” Koltun growled. He had to find another way to make use of the Widowmaker’s Caps. His mind raced, and he spun toward the apprentice. “Do you think your master will be willing to sacrifice some of his flarequartz?” He lifted a mushroom. “A little bit of that exploding rock in the middle of a batch of these could do some real damage!”
Bradon’s expression grew pensive. Drawing out his tablet, he tapped his stick against his lips for a few seconds before writing. “You know what he said when last you spoke on the matter.”
“I do.” Koltun’s jaw muscles clenched. “But that was then, and now we’re in a shite-load of trouble if we can’t use these things to stop the Eirdkilrs. The only way we can do that is with that flarequartz.”
Again, Bradon contemplated Koltun’s words, then wrote, “I will do what I can to convince him, but my master is stubborn. His mind will not change easily.”
Koltun growled a silent curse. “Try, lad.” He rested a hand on Bradon’s shoulders. “All of our lives are resting on your shoulders.”
Bradon’s eyes grew hooded, his shoulders tensing. He set the writing stick to the tablet, but before he could write, a new sound echoed down the Cliffpass. Faint at first, yet growing louder with every beat of Koltun’s heart.
Dread gripped Koltun’s stomach as he recognized the sound. Hoofbeats.
Yet something about it was wrong. Something…missing.
Koltun spun toward the sound. A lone rider thundered down the sodden Cliffpass, splashing through the water and sending muck flying through the air. Even from this distance, the impossibly broad form of Thog was immediately recognizable, his hair disheveled and his crossbow bouncing on his back as he galloped toward them.
But he rode alone.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Fiery hell! Koltun’s mind raced, his eyes darting to the empty trail behind Thog. Worry thrummed in the back of his mind. Where is Madden?
Thog never slowed his mad gallop down the Cliffpass. “Eirdkilrs!” he shouted from fifty yards away. “They were ascending toward Hafoldarholl an hour ago.” He reined in, panting for breath in time with his blowing horse. “They’ll be here in a quarter-hour or less!”
“Where is Madden?” A voice demanded from behind Koltun before he could speak. “Where is my brother?”
Koltun spun to find Gladabar striding toward them, Sadras on his heels.
“Madden is…” Thog struggled to catch his breath. “He…fell!”
All the Screaming Howlers sucked in sharp breaths. Dread coiled like a serpent in Koltun’s gut. He knew what was coming even before Thog had to say the words.
“Fell?” Gladabar’s voice rose to a strident shout. “What do you mean, fell?”
“Glad.” Koltun stepped into the man’s path. “Hear him out.”
Gladabar pushed around Koltun and marched toward Thog, who still sat sweating atop his steaming horse. “What happened?” Gladabar demanded, a wild, frantic edge to his voice. “What happened to my brother?”
“His horse stepped wrong and went down hard.” Thog spoke in a quiet voice, pain echoing in every word and etched into the craggy lines of his blunt face. “When I got to him, he was pinned beneath the horse, both legs crushed and his spine shattered. He wasn’t getting out of there and he knew it. He was the one who insisted
I leave, get word back here before it was too late.” He bowed his head, his huge shoulders slumping. “Last I saw him, he had his dagger drawn, ready to finish it off before the Eirdkilrs got to him.”
For a moment, silence hung in the mountain pass, broken only by the blowing of the tired horse. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath in the wake of the devastating news.
“No!” The single, soul-wrenching cry burst from Gladabar’s lips.
“It can’t be!” Sadras staggered, his legs suddenly weak, and would have fallen if not for his brother’s arms. “N-No, not…” His words cut off in a hoarse, choking rasp. “Not Mad!”
Sorrow settled like a leaden blanket on Koltun’s shoulders. He stepped toward the two brothers, who clung to each other for comfort and support. “I’m sorry, lads,” he said in a quiet voice. “Madden was good people.”
“No!” Gladabar managed again. “No, no, no!” Tears streamed down his face, hot and thick, tracking muddy paths through the dust, soot, and blood caking his cheeks.
Sadras couldn’t even muster words. He wept into his brother’s arms, unintelligible gibberish pouring from his lips. Koltun knew that pain all too well. Sorrow could rob a man’s senses, leave him nothing but a numb lump of flesh and misery.
With effort, he swallowed his sadness, pushed back against the sudden pang of guilt. He couldn’t afford to think that he had been the one to order Madden to accompany Thog. They had bigger problems to worry about, and it fell to him, the officer in command, to keep his head. He could grieve later.
“Burgo, Rock, get them on their horses and ready to ride!” Koltun barked the orders. “Wallis, Lingram, Connell, get down here, now. Leave the ropes if you have to. The rest of you, get those sacks and crates loaded and ready to ride.” He glanced at Thog. “A quarter-hour?”
The broad Praamian nodded. “Maybe less.” Pain showed in every line on his face, and there was a hint of guilt written there, too.
The Last March: A Grimdark Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 6) Page 19