Lieutenant Rearden turned a triumphant look on Vorris. “See? Your insignia’s just gone missing from your armor, is all. A simple matter, easily solved.” From within his pouch, he drew out the stripes Captain Hadrick had stripped from Vorris’ shoulders. He held it out to his fellow Lieutenant. “Here you go!”
Lieutenant Vorris stared at the insignia, then lifted his gaze to the men and women around him. All stared at him eagerly, a faint gleam of hope shining on their faces. Long seconds passed before Lieutenant Vorris’ face twitched into a small smile. Slowly, moisture rising to his eyes, he took the insignia and gave the men—his men, once more—a grateful nod.
“Well, ain’t that touching?!” Despite his mocking tone, Koltun couldn’t help grinning broadly. “Now, if you all are done sucking our Lieutenant’s boots, best we get about planning the battle. My lads and I have come up with a little treat that our Eirdkilr friends are guaranteed to love!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The red-gold glow of late afternoon shone on the empty Cliffpass above the retreating Legionnaires, and for a few short minutes, Koltun almost dared to hope the Eirdkilrs would abandon their pursuit. The barbarians had reclaimed Hafoldarholl, their ancient stronghold, lost in the war hundreds of years earlier, and captured Highcliff Motte. Surely that would be enough to sate their bloodlust and serve whatever battle strategy their leader had in mind.
Yet, all too soon, reality shattered that faint hope as the howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs reached them. Thunder rumbled along the ground from thousands of heavy boots pounding down the Cliffpass.
Koltun’s stomach lurched and his fingers tightened around the wooden stock of his crossbow. Here they come. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and searched the ranks of Legionnaires for his six Screaming Howlers. Thog, Burgo, Caela, Connell, Dannick, and Rock had to be ready for when the Eirdkilrs closed the gap. If they didn’t time their counterattack just right—down to the space between heartbeats—the enemy would hit their shield wall hard.
All seventy of the surviving Ninth Company Legionnaires held the wall facing south. Four rows fifteen wide stretched from cliff wall to cliff wall, sealing the pass in a desperate attempt to halt the enemy advance. The Lieutenants held the rear, ready to call orders to their Sergeants. Behind them, two hundred and sixty-eight men and women—some far too old, others not old enough—stood ready to join battle. Lieutenant Lerron led the two-score civilians tasked with the job of dragging the wounded back from the front lines to the care of the five Menders that had stayed behind to help.
Koltun and his remaining Screaming Howlers—Wallis, Gladabar, Sadras, and, though he was still too weak to work the crossbow, Lingram—had taken up station off to one side of the trail, using an outcropping of rocks both for cover from enemy fire and an elevated post from which to fire.
The soldiers marching in retreat would soon pass their position, and when the battle was joined, Koltun would have no choice but to fall back and find another perch.
The first Eirdkilr appeared around a bend in the Cliffpass, racing along the cliff-bordered trail at a speed no Princelander could hope to match. A shaggy-haired and fierce-bearded giant, his face stained a deep blue with the Eirdkilr war paint, waving his heavy axe as he ran.
Then came another. Equally massive, hair and beard streaming in the wind, filthy ice bear pelt flapping behind him. Two more, then five, and a dozen became twenty, fifty, a hundred. Howling, shrieking their war cries into the late afternoon air with such ferocity the sound set the cliffs trembling. Like demons out of ancient Princelander and Fehlan legends, the Eirdkilrs came on in a tide of flesh, steel, and fury that swelled with every passing beat of Koltun’s hammering heart.
Keeper’s teeth! A chill ran down Koltun’s spine. There are so many of them!
Easily five or six hundred had appeared in the space of a few heartbeats, and still more came on behind them. More than two thousand, Koltun knew, more than five times the number of the Princelanders fighting to survive. But these were no civilians, no laborers accustomed to toil or artistry. These were warriors, ruthless, bloodthirsty, and trained in the art of battle and death. Life in the icy Wastelands had hardened them, and the burning desire to regain land they called theirs lit a fire of hatred and rage in their souls.
And fewer than a hundred trained Legionnaires barred their path. Armor clattered and shields clanked as the soldiers prepared to meet the charge. Koltun could all but taste the terror in the air, and even he couldn’t help the shiver of fear. It was one thing to face that enemy from behind high walls and a strong gate. Here, nothing but open ground and wooden shields kept that ferocious horde at bay.
The Eirdkilrs charged, racing down the Cliffpass, giants hurling themselves toward the Legionnaires with the full force of their fury. Eyes gleaming with delight at the prospect of battle, hair and beards flying wild, steel-headed weapons glinting in the late afternoon sunlight.
Koltun searched the ranks of soldiers and found Caela’s eyes locked on him. The crossbowyers were too few to stop the enemy, and had too few quarrels left to loose. The only hope of survival was to enact the desperate plan at just the right moment. Caela, the Screaming Howlers, and everyone in that terrified battle line counted on him.
He raised a hand, held it high over his head, preparing to give the signal. All around him, civilians shifted, flinched, or muttered, panic seeping into the untrained masses. But he refused to let their fear take root in his heart. He bit down on the creeping dread, fought to ignore the icy fangs of terror. Icy calm settled over him, as it had on the wall, and his world narrowed into the single-minded, dispassionate focus of a trained soldier.
His eyes moved with the foremost Eirdkilrs, counting down the distance. Gauging their speed, measuring the open ground, waiting for just the right moment. That single, crucial second that could spell the difference between life and death.
The Eirdkilrs didn’t bother with their longbows; they had no need, not here, not against so few. By now, the barbarians’ leader would have taken measure of the Princelanders’ capabilities, and would know only a few archers numbered among his enemy’s ranks. He’d doubtless made the choice to commit his full strength to battle. One charge was all it would take to overwhelm the Legion’s pitifully thin ranks.
Whoever led the Eirdkilrs knew it, Koltun knew it, and so did everyone in that shield wall. That knowledge and the accompanying fear threatened to sow panic in their ranks—panic that would lead to their crumbling, fleeing, and dying.
But Lieutenant Vorris would not let them give in to fear. “Hold!” he shouted. “Hold, and by the Long Keeper, we will see victory this day!”
It didn’t matter if he believed it or not—in the face of these odds, it would take a madman to have even a shred of hope. But his voice echoed with the conviction that had kept the soldiers on the walls of Highcliff Motte fighting until the last minute. His words rang of confidence in his Legionnaires, in the strength of those who fought at his side and guarded his back.
“You fight for your families!” Lieutenant Vorris had to shout to be heard over the thundering echoing through the Cliffpass. “You fight for your people, for your Prince, for your very lives! Stand fast, hold strong, and trust in each other. When we stand strong, nothing can defeat us!”
“For the Swordsman!” shouted Lieutenant Cenye from his place on the left flank.
“For the Legion!” Lieutenant Rearden added his cry from the right flank.
“For the Princelands!” Lieutenant Enthrak roared.
All the Legionnaires took up the cry, clashing their swords and shields. Again and again they echoed the call, and soon it spread through the ranks of miners and civilians. Like a rising tide, it lifted their spirits and steeled their hearts for battle. Soon, the shout rose from all three hundred and forty-nine throats. Princelanders and Einari alike roared defiance in the face of the charging enemy.
Koltun clenched his raised fist, his eyes locked on the Eirdkilr horde. They moved with a
speed impossible for any Princelander, long legs carrying them down the Cliffpass at a pace nearly as fast as a running horse. They would plow into the Princelander lines like heavily-armored cavalry, amplified by the momentum of their downhill charge. Against a direct assault by that number, the Legionnaires stood no chance.
He counted down the yards. Fifty yards. Forty-five. Forty. His breath caught in his lungs, his heart scarcely daring to beat.
Thirty yards. He had to time this just right. Twenty yards.
He tore his eyes from the charging enemy and, locking his gaze with Caela’s, gave her one quick nod. Even as his hand fell, a roar rose from the Eirdkilrs as they drew within striking distance of their enemy.
Sparks of fire sprang to life in the fourth rank of the Legion line, and six heavy objects hurtled through the air. Canvas sacks filled with rocks and Widowmaker’s Caps hurtled toward the charging enemy and landed in the cleared space at their feet, ten yards from the Legion shield wall’s foremost rank.
For a terrible moment, nothing happened. The Eirdkilrs seemed not to notice the sacks—or simply didn’t care—but leapt over them and howled as they drew back their weapons to strike.
BANG!
Bright flames blossomed outward from those six bags, man-high gouts of fire that shone bright and hot in the red-gold light of late afternoon. Instantly, a dark brown cloud puffed up from the exploded mushrooms, forming a mud-colored wall of haze right in front of the Eirdkilrs.
The foremost of the enemy never had a chance to slow. They raced into the haze face-first, eyes wide and mouths screaming.
The result was instantaneous and terrible. Eirdkilrs stumbled and fell, shrieking in agony. Giants clawed at their blue-stained faces, tore at their beards, scratched their throats, and nearly tore out their eyes. Weapons clattered from hands that suddenly sprouted hideous sores.
And still the flames and clouds of burning, spore-filled smoke rose in the midst of the Eirdkilr ranks. The hemp canvas burned quick and bright, but Bradon had added some strange plant—flareweed, he’d called it—into the sacks to prolong the blaze, intensify the heat, and make the poison of the Widowmaker’s Cap even more potent.
Scores of Eirdkilrs, racing at full speed, charged through the haze, and they collapsed to the muddy ground before they reached the formed-up Legionnaires. Those behind tried to slow, to fall back from the deadly smoke and noxious fire. Scores more died, trampled beneath the heavy boots of comrades bulling along behind them. The Eirdkilr charge slowed and stalled as the barbarians stared in shocked surprise at their shrieking, writhing, howling comrades dying from no weapon they could see.
Koltun searched out Bradon, who stood near Caela and her squad of Screaming Howlers. The Secret Keeper apprentice seemed stunned by the results. He’d known what the Widowmaker’s Caps could do, and it had been his idea to use fire—he’d explained that the heat would increase the aggressive spread of the spores and render them even more lethal. But to see it first-hand, and with such terrible effects, was another thing completely.
“Fall back!” Lieutenant Vorris’ voice cut through the shrieking howls of the Eirdkilrs. “Back, now!”
The rearmost ranks of civilians obeyed the order first, racing backward at full speed. Cohesion was sacrificed for hurry as they pulled fifty feet back and re-formed their ranks.
Koltun, too, abandoned his perch and joined his detachment of Screaming Howlers in falling back. His joints ached and muscles protested, but he forced himself to ignore the pain and exhaustion as he retreated to the next position he’d picked out farther down the Cliffpass. He’d lost much of his cover, but he had no other choice.
Rank by rank, the Princelanders pulled back, until Lieutenant Vorris gave the order for the Legion’s front lines to reverse-march. Without turning or breaking cohesion, the shield wall marched slowly backward down the hill to the next defensive position.
The Eirdkilrs didn’t capitalize on the sudden retreat. The barbarians appeared paralyzed by the sudden chaos in their ranks. Those nearest the clouds of brown smoke milled about, hesitant to approach the haze or their screaming, dying comrades.
“Retreat!” Again, Lieutenant Vorris’ shout echoed off the cliff walls. “Retreat!”
Another slow withdrawal, one rank at a time. The shield wall never turned from the enemy as they pulled back another fifty feet, march-stepping in reverse. Legionnaires stumbled and the ranks buckled as they tried to move around the debris and rocks cluttering the Cliffpass. Their retreat was an ugly, uncoordinated thing, but somehow they made it work. The foremost rank—veterans all—managed to keep the shield wall solid as they pulled back fifty, a hundred, then two hundred feet.
Koltun’s gut clenched as the enemy’s howls renewed. Glancing up the Cliffpass, he found the fires of the burning sacks had extinguished, the hemp canvas consumed. The gentle breeze blowing through the mountain trail carried the dark brown clouds of Widowmaker’s Cap spores away, dissipating the haze.
The way was clear for another Eirdkilr charge.
“Get ready!” he roared.
The barbarians shrieking their fury, clashing heavy weapons against their wooden shields, and on they came. Leaping over their dead and dying comrades, boots splashing in the mud, their eyes gleaming with rage and bloodlust. The racing horde closed the distance to the retreating Legionnaires in the space of half a minute.
But Koltun and his Screaming Howlers were ready. Six more canvas sacks sailed over the front ranks and exploded in front of the Eirdkilrs. This time, the foremost barbarians were ready, and they managed to slow. All but a few who stumbled into the dark brown clouds and died in agony. Only a handful, Koltun saw, no more than two dozen.
For a heartbeat, the howling, surging mass of Eirdkilrs milled in front of the poisonous haze blocking off the Cliffpass. Koltun thought they might charge through—that little cloud of spores couldn’t kill all two thousand of them.
“Aim into the smoke!” he shouted to his men.
The Screaming Howlers loosed a volley into the choking clouds. The flying bolts shrieked their way toward the enemy, pulling dark trails of spore-laden smoke along behind them straight into the heart of the Eirdkilr ranks. The missiles took down a handful; the poisonous mushrooms did the rest.
Then it happened. A horn rang out from deep within the enemy’s ranks, and the Eirdkilrs began to pull back. Slowly at first, barely a trickle, but more and more with every passing second until it turned into a proper retreat. Not a rout or desperate flight, yet enough to fill the Princelanders with hope.
Cheers rose from among the ranks of miners and civilians. The Legionnaires hurled shouts, curses, and jeers at their withdrawing enemy.
“Fall back!” Lieutenant Vorris roared. “Fall back, and get to the next position before it’s too late!”
Koltun was moving before the Lieutenant’s command fell silent. This was the trickiest part of the day’s battle—they had to pull back a full three hundred yards to the next defensible position, a spot where the canyon narrowed to just five yards across. There, the Eirdkilrs would have to come at them only a handful at a time, and the close cliff walls would concentrate the smoke of the burning mushroom sacks.
The Screaming Howlers mounted their horses—Wallis helping Koltun into his saddle—and galloped down the hill. There, Gladabar and Sadras awaited them, crossbows loaded and bolts nocked. Koltun had sent the two, still reeling from their brother’s death, to scout the pass below. They needed a few moments alone away from the rest of the camp before the battle.
Koltun and Crimson Squad set up behind rocky outcroppings, and Lingram led the horses down the Cliffpass to keep them out of the way of the retreating civilians and soldiers. It fell to Koltun to keep an eye on the Eirdkilrs while the Lieutenants focused on managing the longer withdrawal. The minute the enemy attempted to cross through the cloud of spores, Koltun would raise the alarm. Gladabar and Sadras were already preparing the next batch of sacks.
Slowly—too slowly! Koltun thought—th
e ranks of civilians, miners, and Legionnaires pulled back from their position higher up the Cliffpass. The untrained hurried, not bothering to maintain firm ranks, but Lieutenant Vorris and his officers kept the Legionnaires formed-up as they moved. With the enemy pulling back from the noxious smoke, the soldiers could afford a faster pace.
Koltun breathed a sigh of relief as the Legionnaires, Caela and the rest of the Screaming Howlers with them, reached his position. One line at a time, the soldiers formed up—now six ranks deep, ten across—shields facing the enemy.
All eyes turned toward the Cliffpass, watching the burning sacks, waiting for the inevitable.
Koltun could almost smell the woody smell of the hemp canvas consumed by the flames, and imagined he could feel the heat. He shuddered at the sight of the dead and dying Eirdkilrs that hadn’t managed to avoid the smoke. It was a terrible death, even for the bastard barbarians.
Slowly, one agonizing heartbeat at a time, the flames diminished. Then died completely. The smoke rising from the sacks turned from dark brown to a thin, wispy grey. Red-gold light from the setting sun filled the Cliffpass with an ominous glow, gleaming off the helms and weapons of the Eirdkilrs, as the way grew clear.
The enemy advanced.
No charge this time, though. Instead, they moved more slowly, lumbering downhill, seeming unhurried. They stepped over the bodies of their fallen comrades, uncaring and cold as ice, and moved toward the Princelanders. No war cries, no screaming howls or curses of “Death to the half-men!” in their guttural tongue. Only the steady tromp, tromp of heavy boots, and the cacophony of weapons clashing rhythmically against their shields.
Something had changed. Koltun didn’t know what, but this wasn’t the same battle they’d been fighting mere minutes earlier. Whatever had transpired in the minutes since that horn blew, whatever order the Eirdkilrs’ commander had given, the nature of the next skirmish would be entirely different. And that sent a chill down Koltun’s spine.
The Last March: A Grimdark Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 6) Page 21