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

by Andy Peloquin

  It was his arm. His hand, still locked around the stump of his decapitated war hammer.

  I wonder why there’s no pain, was the last thought that went through his mind as darkness dragged him into its icy depths.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Agony dragged Koltun back to consciousness. His right shoulder throbbed, sending waves of anguish coursing through his body. He stirred, trying to push himself up from the bloody muck, only to find he was already upright. Prying open eyelids that felt terribly heavy, he forced his vision to focus. Blurry details sharpened to a strange pain-wrought clarity.

  Worried faces hovered in front of him. Familiar beneath the blood that slicked cheeks, forehead, chins, and necks. Thog, Burgo, Caela, shadows thick in their eyes.

  “Hey, Sarge.” Caela spoke in a quiet voice, far gentler than he’d ever heard from her. “Had us worried for a minute there.”

  “Nah.” Burgo gave a dismissive wave. “I told you he wouldn’t be down and out for good. Just needed a little nap is all, right, Sarge?” He reached out a hand and gripped Koltun’s left shoulder. “Welcome back.”

  Koltun groaned, and memories flashed through his mind. The Eirdkilrs’ rear assault. Caught in the melee, fighting his way toward Wallis, Lingram, and Bradon. Sorrow bloomed in his chest at the image of Wallis slumping to the muddy ground, eyes wide, blood gushing from his lips.

  Then a stabbing, searing agony in his right arm brought back one last memory. He glanced down at the stump that ended just beneath his right shoulder. Acid surged in his stomach and he wanted to retch, but forced himself to swallow hard.

  “What…happened?” he croaked out. His mouth felt dry, his face thick with caked mud and blood. “The…battle?”

  “We pushed them back for a few minutes.” Thog’s rumbling voice echoed in Koltun’s bones. “But they’re gearing up for another push. We’ve got to get back to the fight.” He glanced at the two Screaming Howlers at his side. “Just thought we ought to come and say goodbye.”

  “Goodbye?” Confusion furrowed Koltun’s brow, and his pain-numbed mind struggled to comprehend the broad Praamian’s words. He tried to struggle to his feet, a task made awkward by his missing arm. “If the bastards are going to hit us again, then it’s best we get to the—”

  “Sarge!” Caela’s voice was firm, hard, her grip on his shoulder pressing him back to a seat. “There’s no ‘we’ in this.”

  Koltun stared at her, uncomprehending. Wounded he might be, but he could still fight left-handed. Though he wouldn’t slow the enemy down much, one more body to get in the Eirdkilrs’ way meant those fleeing could…

  His thoughts trailed off as his eyes seemed to see the Cliffpass around him for the first time. All seventy of the Eirdkilrs lay dead, their filthy ice bear pelts stained with mud and blood. Their own blood, and that of the Princelanders they’d slaughtered. Of the eighty-six civilians and miners that had prepared to flee south, less than two dozen remained. All battered, bruised, some with broken arms and bleeding wounds, but still standing, straggling down the Cliffpass in pursuit of their wives and families.

  Again, he tried to struggle upright, and again Caela pressed him down to the ground. “Easy, Sarge. You move wrong, you could start the bleeding again, and Mender Barthus just got it under control.”

  Koltun stared down at the stump of his right arm, at the blood-soaked bandage encircling the amputated limb.

  “You’re not going to move until Lingram’s ready for you,” Thog rumbled.

  Lingram! Hope surged within Koltun’s chest and his heart beat faster. “He’s…alive?”

  “Aye.” Burgo nodded. “He’s preparing to ride out. And you’re going with him.”

  Koltun opened his mouth to protest, but Thog cut him off. “No buts, Sarge.” The broad man’s dark eyes blazed. “This order’s not one you can give, so the three of us are giving it for you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘can’t give’?” Anger burned in Koltun’s chest, intensifying the throbbing in his arm. “Arm or no, I’m still your bloody damned Sergeant!” His voice rose to a shout.

  “True.” Thog nodded. “And never a more stubborn one ever did live, says I.” He gripped Koltun’s uninjured shoulder. “But for what needs doing, you’re the best man for the job.”

  Koltun blinked, puzzled. “What needs doing?”

  “The Cliffpass must come down,” Caela said, leaning closer. “And you’re the only one who can change the Arch-Guardian’s mind.”

  Koltun began to respond. “But Bradon—”

  Then he saw Lingram, pale-faced and eyes rimmed from crying, walking up behind the three Screaming Howlers, leading three horses by the reins. Two were riderless, and the third had the remaining half-barrel of flarequartz, and a bloody, lifeless body draped over the empty saddle.

  No! Koltun sucked in a ragged breath, ice freezing in his veins. Bradon’s head had been crushed by a war club, his limbs shattered.

  Tears blurred in his eyes. Bradon had been so brave, daring to defy his master and fighting to protect Lingram and the remaining flarequartz in the Eirdkilrs’ rear assault.

  But that was the way of war. The brave and good always died too soon.

  “The Arch-Guardian has to change his mind,” Caela said, her voice still gentle, almost soothing. “And there’s only one man hardheaded enough to out-stubborn him.”

  Koltun lifted his eyes to hers, and he saw hard steel gleaming there. Defiant as ever, determined to make the sacrifice demanded by their grim situation.

  He reached his hand toward her, and she enveloped his scarred palm in hers. Neither of them spoke for long seconds, but he gripped her tight—the woman who had become like the daughter he’d never dreamed he might have. Her strength of spirit and unyielding will had gotten the Screaming Howlers through countless scrapes and battles. But not this one. She knew it, and she embraced her fate with the dauntless courage that made her the woman she was.

  Not releasing her hand, he turned to Burgo and Thog. He opened his mouth but no words came out. What could he say to them? How could he bid farewell to these two who had become as his brothers, united in purpose and spirit?

  “Yeah.” Thog’s rumbling voice was hoarse, thick with emotion. “Same to you, Sarge.”

  “Damn right.” Burgo gripped Koltun’s good shoulder. “We’ll keep a place for you at the Swordsman’s side.”

  “A little place, though.” Thog’s rocky face creased into a wry grin and he held up his thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart. “No reason to suspect you’ll be any bigger in the Sleepless Lands than you were here.”

  “Careful, Thog, or I’ll spend the rest of eternity kicking your arse for insubordination!” Koltun tried for an angry growl, but his voice cracked. He could only manage a harsh chuckle. “Consider yourself lucky I’m just too damned tired to get up and plant my boot up your backside.”

  Thog and Burgo grinned, but Koltun caught the glimmer of moisture in both men’s eyes.

  “Come on.” Thog elbowed Burgo in the ribs. “We’re not the only ones who want a word with the Sarge.”

  Caela made no move to leave. She remained kneeling at Koltun’s side, hand gripping his tight. She smiled at him—clearly forced, but he appreciated it nonetheless—and knelt in silence as the rest of the Screaming Howlers came to say goodbye.

  Gladabar and Sadras came as a pair. Neither of them could form a coherent sentence between them, but neither could Koltun. He managed not to shed tears as one-eyed Connell touched his forehead to Koltun’s in silence. Even Rock, still lost within the depths of grief, came to bid him farewell. Just a wordless nod, a half-smile, and then he was gone.

  That was it for the Screaming Howlers. The rest had fallen in battle, already gone to the Long Keeper’s arms.

  Lieutenants Enthrak, Cenye, and Rearden came to stand in front of the place where Koltun sat against the cliff walls. All three straightened and clapped fists to their chests—the Legionnaire’s salute. They could tarry no longer, but ru
shed off, shouting orders to the few soldiers, miners, and civilians still remaining in the shield wall.

  Lieutenant Vorris was the last to come. The Legionnaire knelt next to Caela, and Koltun could see the man had suffered badly in the last clash. Blood trickled from a nasty wound in his forehead, stained the bandages around his neck, both arms, and right leg. But it was the slash in his gut that Koltun knew was the worst of all. That wound, inflicted by an Eirdkilr axe, still bled freely. Only a strip of ragged cloth kept Vorris’ organs from slipping out the gaping tear. The man lived on borrowed time, and the Long Keeper would come to claim him all too soon.

  Injuries or no, Lieutenant Vorris’ voice was strong, his grip on Koltun’s uninjured shoulder firm. “Thank you, Sergeant. We all owe you our lives.”

  Koltun managed to grimace. “From what I hear, you got the raw end of that bargain.” He tried to chuckle, but that sent fresh waves of pain through the stump of his right arm. “Seems like we all did. Still, we can’t complain, right? It’s the life we signed up for.”

  “Aye, so it is.” Lieutenant Vorris screwed up his face in pain, clenching his teeth. He would have fallen had Caela not released her grip on Koltun’s hand and held him upright. The Lieutenant turned to stare at Caela, their faces a hand’s breadth apart. When he turned back to Koltun, a little smile tugged at his lips. “And a good life, all things considered. Even now, at the end.”

  He reached for Caela’s hand on his arm, and she didn’t pull away as he placed his bloodstained fingers atop hers. For one long second, the two remained unmoving. They knelt in front of Koltun, Vorris leaning on Caela, she giving him the comfort of her strength and presence.

  The sound of a war horn shattered the moment. The Eirdkilrs had sounded the attack.

  “Come on.” Caela lifted Lieutenant Vorris to his feet, all but holding him upright. “Best we get on with getting on.” She glanced down at Koltun. “And you’ve got places to be, too, Sarge. Fifteen miles is going to be a hell of a ride in your condition.”

  With effort, Koltun struggled to stand. Blood seemed to rush along his right side, sending fresh waves of agony through his arm—an arm no longer attached to his shoulder, but still ached nonetheless. He reeled and nearly collapsed from the pain, but managed to catch himself on the cliff wall.

  “Don’t you worry about me,” he said, trying to conceal the pain. “I’ve got the easy job, remember? You show those damned barbarians what happens when they tangle with the Legion, you hear?”

  Caela nodded and smiled. “I learned from the best.” She turned away then, and Koltun was glad she did. He wobbled and nearly fell, his legs giving out. Lingram leapt toward him and slung Koltun’s uninjured arm over his shoulder. Together, the two limped to where Thog stood beside the horses.

  “Last time I’ll make it easy for you, Sarge.” Thog grinned. “Next time, you’ll have to do this all on your own.”

  Koltun made no protest as Thog lifted him and placed him into the saddle. He couldn’t have managed on his own.

  Thog paused for a long second, hand resting on Koltun’s leg. He locked gazes with Koltun, and for the first time, Koltun saw something new in the big man’s eyes: fear.

  Thog had always been as solid as a rock, always at Koltun’s side, never hesitating to join battle. Yet the knowledge of what awaited him—the certainty of death, with no chance of escape—seemed to fill the man with a bone-deep unease. As it should. Only madmen went to their deaths smiling.

  Koltun leaned his head down to the big man. “Strength and courage, Thog. To the end we march, brave soldiers.”

  “Aye, so we do.” The fear didn’t leave Thog’s eyes, but a new determination mingled there. He gripped Koltun’s leg tight and squeezed once, nodding. “We march into peace, Sarge. May it be many long years until we meet you there!”

  With a little smile, Thog removed his hand from Koltun’s leg and slapped the horse on the rump, sending Koltun racing off downhill just as the first clash of battle rang out in the Cliffpass.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Pain was all Koltun knew on that desperate, mad race downhill. Every thundering step of the horse beneath him jolted his wounded arm, sent shivers of agony coursing through his body. At times, it grew so bad he nearly blacked out. How he managed to keep his seat, he didn’t know.

  Once, he emerged from the darkness and found himself no longer seated on his own horse. He felt something warm against his chest. Blinking his eyes open, he found himself sharing a saddle with Lingram, his face thumping against the young man’s back. Something firm—strips of cloth or rope, he didn’t know—bound him to Lingram, keeping him upright as they rode down the Cliffpass. All too soon, he descended into unconsciousness, pain and exhaustion dragging him down into an empty, chill void.

  The sound of hoofbeats echoed as if from across a vast gulf, sounding so faint and distant he might have imagined himself dreaming if not for the relentless drumming that set every fiber of his body vibrating. The jolting of the running horse kept him drifting in and out of consciousness. It wasn’t until much later—five minutes or five hours, he couldn’t be certain—that he realized he and Lingram weren’t alone. Six men and one woman rode alongside them.

  Koltun blinked, his numb mind trying to identify them. He vaguely recognized one of the men. A miner from among the handful that determined to help Bradon bring down the cliffs and seal off the Cliffpass. Koltun’s eyes were too bleary to focus on the faces of the others. He could only hope that those men and the woman riding with them had the experience needed to set the flarequartz explosion. That was their only hope of survival now.

  The haze claimed him again, cold and numbing, pulling him back down into the soothing depths of nothingness. No pain in his severed arm. No grief twisting in his chest at the knowledge that he’d left behind good men and women to die. No dread of the enemy that even now had to be coming for them. Only silence, darkness, and peace.

  But every time he felt himself sinking into that dark place, something within Koltun rebelled. A fire burning deep within his soul kept him from giving in to the cold. He couldn’t slip into the void, not yet. He had one last task to complete, one last mission to undertake. Only once certain his job was done could he close his eyes.

  “Sarge!” Lingram’s voice drew him back out of the darkness, pulling his mind back to awareness. Pain lanced his arm and throbbed through his entire upper body. That agony and the worry in Lingram’s voice was enough to drag him back into the realm of the living.

  “Sarge, wake up!”

  The plaintive tone to the young man’s words pierced Koltun’s pain-numbed mind. Something was wrong. With effort, he managed to blink his eyes open. He could see nothing, his face pressed against Lingram’s back, so he stirred, tried to sit upright. Even that small effort proved nearly impossible and sent a wave of pain washing over him. Gritting his teeth against a cry of anguish, he forced his body to respond, his muscles to hold him up.

  Holding tight to Lingram with his good left hand, he leaned to the right, peering around the youth’s back. Not a hundred yards away, the women, children, and elderly of Highcliff Motte struggled down the Cliffpass. They moved slowly—too slowly—their exhausted feet dragging over stone and mud.

  “Where…are we?” Koltun managed, though his voice was weak with exhaustion and tight with pain.

  “Not far enough.” Lingram spoke in a quiet, heavy voice. “We still have two miles to go before we reach the spot where Lieutenant Enthrak said we could bring down the cliff.”

  Two miles! The words sent a chill down Koltun’s spine.

  One look at the exhausted civilians, and Koltun knew they had only the barest chance of reaching safety. The brave last stand of Legionnaires and civilians who stayed with Lieutenant Vorris and the Screaming Howlers would slow down the Eirdkilrs only a little. Two, three hours at most. Perhaps even now the barbarians were howling over the corpses of the fallen Princelanders, racing toward the unguarded northern mouth of the Cliffpass. U
nless they paused to rest—unlikely, given how close they were to their end goal of invading southeastern Fehl—the Eirdkilrs would cover the distance, less than thirteen miles, at a pace barely slower than Koltun’s horse.

  The women, children, and elders were running out of time.

  “Come on, lad!” Koltun tried to speak in a strong voice, backing his words with the force of the determination that had kept him alive thus far. “We’ve got to warn them, but more important, we’ve got to get to that spot and prepare to bring down the Cliffpass.”

  The miners had said it would take at least two hours to survey the site, find the weaknesses in the cliff faces, and set the flarequartz and burn ropes in the right places. And that was an optimistic assessment. They had not a moment to lose.

  Lingram never slowed, but rode straight down the Cliffpass toward the exhausted civilians. Women turned fearful eyes toward them, shielding children with their bodies and cradling swaddled infants in arms long ago exhausted. Elderly men and women leaned on each other for support, but it was clear in every eye, the lines on every face, that these people were on the edge of collapse.

  Yet what choice did they have? They couldn’t stop, not yet. They had just two more miles to cover. Two miles that would feel like a thousand. But if they could just continue, they had a chance of reaching safety.

  It fell to Koltun to keep them moving.

  “Run!” he roared at the top of his lungs. “Run as if the demons of the frozen hell are after you!”

  Tired faces turned toward him, and eyes dull from fatigue locked on the figures riding down the mountain pass.

  “The Eirdkilrs are coming!” From somewhere deep inside, he found a reserve of the strength that had kept him alive thus far, and it burst out from him in his shouts to the civilians. “But there is hope! Just a little farther, and you will reach safety. So run, Keeper take it. Run like your lives depend on it!”