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

by Andy Peloquin

  The weight of that realization settled on Koltun’s shoulders, and he let out a long breath. “I…didn’t know…how much it meant,” he said slowly, his words hesitant. “If I had, I might have sent Bradon away sooner.”

  Arch-Guardian Dayn’s eyes darkened, brows knitting together. Sorrow twisted his face into a frown as he wrote again. “Bradon made his choice to serve the Mistress in his own way,” his tablet read. Scrubbing away the words, he wrote again. “I grieve his passing, as will my brothers and sisters in the Temple. When I decided to bring down the Cliffpass, I intended to send him back north with this sample of flarequartz and word of its location. Now, the mission falls to me.” He fixed Koltun with a firm look and tapped the words at the bottom. “To us.”

  Koltun nodded. “The Screaming Howlers were assigned to help you complete that mission.” He grimaced, the pain of loss compounding the throbbing agony in his severed right arm. “Sad to say, there’s only one Screaming Howler that can get you where you need to go. Him.” He gestured to Lingram.

  Arch-Guardian Dayn stared down at the young man, a question in his eyes.

  “He is strong,” Koltun said. “He has endured much—far more than anyone so young ever should. Yet it has not broken him. Instead, it tempers him as fire does steel.” He knelt at Lingram’s side. “He has the makings of a great man in him, if he can survive this.”

  Arch-Guardian Dayn’s eyes filled with understanding. He wrote on his tablet with visible effort, his muscles trembling with fatigue and sickness. “He will see me safely home, and I him.”

  “Thank you.” The words came hard, a lump in Koltun’s throat turning his voice raspy. He gripped the Arch-Guardian’s shoulder, and the priest returned the clasp.

  Dayn released his grip and wrote on his tablet. “The explosion will bring down the Cliffpass for a mile,” his words read. “Anyone still in the pass will be buried alive. This is the only way out for those who can make it before it’s too late.”

  Koltun understood, and that understanding filled him with sorrow. The slow-moving women, children, and elders couldn’t hope to reach safety through the Cliffpass. But if the Eirdkilrs caught up with them, saw them fleeing into this narrow pass, all of Koltun’s efforts would be undone. The Eirdkilrs would have another way to invade Fehl through the Sawtooth Mountains. Here, “too late” meant before Dayn sealed that stone door once more.

  Slowly, Koltun nodded. “I will do what needs to be done.” A weight settled on his shoulders. The burden of command weighed heaviest in moments like this.

  He turned to Lingram. The youth moaned, eyelids fluttering, hot with fever. Koltun held Lingram’s hand in his.

  “Will you tell him something for me, Dayn?” His eyes never left the young man. “Tell him what my father told me the day I left to join the Legion.” He squeezed Lingram’s hand tighter, and a slow, sad smile spread across his lips. “He said, ‘Strive to be a great man, Son, but above all, strive to be a good one.’”

  Now he turned to Arch-Guardian Dayn, and the priest nodded agreement.

  “Thank you.” Koltun rose to his feet, grimacing at the pain that settled in every joint, the fatigue turning his muscles to lead. “Swordsman watch over you, Priest. Until we meet again in the Sleepless Lands.”

  The priest closed his eyes and pressed the silver pendant to his lips, kissing the figurine of the Mistress. His silent blessing to Koltun. A final farewell.

  With a grateful smile, Koltun turned and staggered away, never once looking back.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Koltun sat alone in the Cliffpass.

  The miners had gone. Their work done, the canvas-wrapped bundles of explosive flarequartz set along the cliff, they’d raced off up the mountain trail to help the women, children, and elders. Their families, directly in the path of the Eirdkilrs.

  Koltun had wanted to go with them. He’d wanted to hurry back to the column of civilians and hustle them along, shout at them to move faster. To light a fire under their arses in the hope that they could outrun the oncoming Eirdkilr horde.

  His strength had given out half an hour earlier. He’d barely managed to stumble back down the forty yards from the hidden side trail to where the cart stood empty. There, he’d slumped against one huge wooden wheel, panting, wracked with chills despite the sweat streaming down his face. He hadn’t been able to move since.

  It had taken two miners to lift him into the cart. In gratitude, Koltun had given them his and Lingram’s horses. They had mounted up without a backward glance and charged up the Cliffpass. Racing, desperate, demanding every shred of speed they could from the exhausted warhorses.

  Koltun didn’t know if it would be enough, if they’d reach their families in time. He only knew that he was in no shape to move.

  And so he sat, basking in the silence and the warmth of the sun. The haze had retreated, and bright golden sunlight streamed down around him. A welcome break from the chill, grey haze, wind, snow, and rain that had been his constant companion for what felt like an eternity. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt the soft touch of those rays on his skin. He smiled and fought the urge to close his eyes.

  His arm had started bleeding again. When, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. The bandages were soaked through, the Menders’ hurried stitches torn free of his skin. He felt no pain, though. He was beyond pain.

  Now, he sat on the cart, prepared to fulfill his final mission. The burn cord was tied to his belt, running along behind him and splitting off into many smaller cords leading toward the flarequartz bundles set into the rock wall. Evidently, Arch-Guardian Dayn’s alchemical chest had contained some marvelous liquid that served as fuel for the fire, sped the burning spark along its way. The Secret Keeper had predicted it would take ten seconds for the flame to reach the first bundle.

  One explosion, and the destruction of the cliffs would trigger a chain reaction even as the rest of the burn cords set fire to their bundles. The high stone walls would crumble, blocking the Cliffpass for a mile to the north. The Eirdkilrs’ path would be barred. If not forever, at least long enough for someone to notice and investigate.

  The Legion would hear of the destruction, and they would know that something was amiss.

  That was enough. The fact that Lingram and Arch-Guardian Dayn still lived filled him with hope. The truth would survive the devastation. Warning would reach the right ears—Commander Brintus, General Traighan, perhaps even the Prince himself.

  Ninth Company’s sacrifice would be enough.

  He smiled. His grip tightened on the smooth wooden stock of the crossbow resting across his lap. His crossbow. Somehow, Lingram had had the good sense to retrieve it after the battle and secure it to the horse that transported Bradon’s corpse. The horse was gone, taken by a miner to fetch his family, and the apprentice’s body lying in the cart next to Koltun. But the crossbow and a single bolt—all that remained in Koltun’s quiver—remained close at hand.

  It had taken two miners to span the crossbow, to lock the string in place. One-armed, Koltun lacked the strength to load. But even with his left hand, he could shoot.

  By the Swordsman, he would shoot. The front of the crossbow rested on one wooden wall of the cart, with Koltun gripping the stock in a worn, callused hand. The bolt’s steel head, flecked with the holes that streamlined the bolt and emitted its piercing whistle, gleamed bright and vicious in the sunlight.

  One shot. It was all he had. He’d make it count.

  He drew in a deep breath, eyes closed, and listened. Listened for the sound of hoofbeats, of thundering giant feet, of weeping women, screaming children, or shouting men. He listened for anything—anything—to tell him he hadn’t failed.

  He heard it: boots shuffling over stone, squelching through muck, pounding along the ground. His eyelids snapped open and he stared up the Cliffpass, hope surging in his chest. Women and children came racing around the bend in the trail. Men with them, carrying infants or helping elders stagger along. Thirty, perh
aps forty, terror etched into every line of their pale faces, visible in their frantic downhill sprint.

  He’d barely opened his mouth to speak, to shout at them to hurry, to give them directions to flee into the hidden passage where Arch-Guardian Dayn and Lingram waited. He opened his mouth, but it was too late.

  On the heels of the fleeing civilians, Eirdkilrs lumbered into view. Scores of them, then hundreds, furs stained with blood, weapons edged with crimson, faces bright and voices loud with their howling war cries.

  Koltun’s hope died in that moment. He couldn’t bring himself to watch the butchery, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away, either. Though tears blurred his vision and streamed down his cheeks, he forced himself to fix his gaze on those desperate struggles of the last Princelanders to survive the flight from Highcliff Motte.

  The bloodbath was over in seconds. Not even a minute—the Eirdkilr horde simply rolled over the fleeing civilians. Steel spear and axe heads flashed in the sunlight, wooden clubs struck, and crimson stained the mountain trail. The bodies were swallowed up beneath the trampling feet, disappearing from Koltun’s sight a heartbeat after they fell.

  More than thirty Princelanders, slain before they could do more than cry out to their gods.

  Acid surged in Koltun’s stomach. They never stood a chance.

  All this time, he’d tried to believe they had hope. He’d stubbornly clung to the belief that they might be able to escape the inevitable. He’d been wrong. So very wrong.

  Movement along the cliffs to his left. Koltun sucked in a breath, horrified, as Lingram darted out of the hidden passage. The youth had managed to recover enough to climb to his feet, and now made to run toward Koltun.

  Arch-Guardian Dayn caught him from behind before he’d taken two steps. The youth struggled, but the taller, stronger priest clapped a silencing hand over his mouth and dragged him back into the passage.

  Koltun wept then. He wept in relief—the contours of the cliff walls had hidden the last two survivors from the Eirdkilrs’ view, and Dayn wouldn’t release Lingram until the secret passage was sealed behind them.

  Sorrow turned his tears bitter, too. Not for himself or the inevitable fate awaiting him. He wept for those who had given their lives in service of a greater cause. The brave men and women, soldiers and civilians alike, who had chosen to sacrifice everything to save lives. Not only the lives of their families, loved ones, friends, and comrades, but every Princelander and Fehlan north of the mountains.

  The Eirdkilrs’ charge slowed as they caught sight of him. A one-armed, bleeding figure sitting alone in a cart made for a pitiful sight, he knew.

  Good. Steel hardened in his gut. Let them think I am helpless.

  The barbarians slowed, then came to a stop, not a hundred yards from where he sat. They mocked him, hurling curses and jeering shouts in their guttural language. They had no need to hurry—he was alone, dying, and they had an army of thousands.

  Koltun scanned their ranks, searching for the right target. He had one bolt left; he would use it damned well.

  A grim smile tugged at his lips as the ranks of Eirdkilrs parted. A lone figure pushed from among the giant warriors. Taller than the rest by a full head, his hair a gory crimson rather than their dirty blond. Gore flecked his beard, crusted his face, drenched his furs and leather armor. Bloodlust burned in the gaze he fixed on Koltun.

  He said something in the Eirdkilrs’ guttural tongue. Koltun didn’t understand the words, but his meaning was clear. The brutal bastard stood over the bodies of fallen women and children and mocked Koltun’s weakness.

  The giant Eirdkilr took a step closer and spread his arms wide. A sardonic smile twisted his thick lips and heavy features. He swaggered closer, proud, arrogant, at the head of his victorious army. Still stained with the blood of women, children, soldiers, civilians, miners. Koltun’s friends, his family.

  The red-haired barbarian carried no shield, and he never bothered drawing the enormous axe on his back. He simply strode closer to Koltun, spewing curses in his tongue, coming to a stop seventy-five yards away. Arms still wide, mocking the solitary, one-armed crossbowman bleeding to death.

  After all these days of fighting, after all the Eirdkilrs slain at the end of the Screaming Howlers’ crossbow bolts, the giant brute ought to have been wary. Yet he only stood there, defying Koltun to do his worst. The look in his dark eyes dripped with contempt for the pitiful figure—not even the size of a “half-man”—taking aim at him.

  A smile touched Koltun’s lips. You chose the wrong man to mock, you bastard.

  He made no move, no attempt to bend over the crossbow or wrestle the heavy stock to his shoulder to aim and loose. Only his forearm muscles twitched as he squeezed the metal trigger.

  The crossbow string twanged. The bolt leapt forward, screaming its furious cry, speeding across the seventy five yards in the blink of an eye.

  Too fast for the barbarian to anticipate. Before the man could move, the bolt thunked into his chest, the shrieking whistle silenced in his flesh. Mouth agape, the giant fell to one knee, staring stupidly down at the bolt protruding from his heart.

  The Eirdkilrs howled their rage, then. Their screams, tinged with fury, rang loud in the Cliffpass, echoing off the cliff walls and rattling Koltun’s bones. They raised their weapons, lifted shields, and raced toward him. The leader, still kneeling, eyes locked on the bolt in his chest, disappeared from Koltun’s view, swallowed up in the charging throng.

  Koltun’s smile widened. He lit the firestriker on his boot and touched it to the cord tied to his belt.

  Ten.

  The countdown began as the Eirdkilrs raced down the Cliffpass toward him.

  Yet he felt no fear. Their howling war cries held no terror, not for him, not now. He’d fought them for decades, killed hundreds, perhaps thousands of them.

  In the end, he’d fought well. A brave soldier, to the end. And now he died well. A soldier’s death. Snarling and smiling to the very end.

  Nine.

  His eyes locked on the Eirdkilrs, on the hate that gleamed in their eyes. Their hate could not touch him now. He was beyond them.

  Eight.

  How they howled, their fury ringing from the stone walls and muddy ground, echoing to the high heavens. Yet in that moment, he knew the truth. They were men of flesh, bone, and blood as much as he. They, too, would face an end. If not today, someday soon. When that happened, they would stand before the gods and give answers for what they had done.

  Seven.

  Koltun smiled. He knew what he would say when the Long Keeper came for him. Already, he could see those icy arms opening wide to welcome him, to pull him into the everlasting embrace of death. The chill seeping into every fiber of his being told him his fight was done. The war was over.

  Six.

  Koltun’s vision blurred, and he blinked. For the first time, he saw them. Not the Eirdkilrs, blue-stained faces opened wide in howls of rage.

  No, he saw his friends.

  Nouth, with Rock at his side, smiling broadly in greeting. Dannick, too, nodding, eyes free from shadow and pain. Lieutenants Cenye, Rearden, and Enthrak. Soldiers of Pearl Battalion, of every company he’d served in. Hundreds of them, fists pressed to their chests in the Legionnaire’s salute.

  Five.

  Wallis, that eager gleam of youth still brightening his fresh face. Connell, somehow with two eyes now—and all the uglier for it. Gladabar, Sadras, and Madden, wrestling over a bottle of something potent, griping at each other as always. Reunited at last, forever.

  Four.

  Lieutenant Vorris, tall and proud, face shining. Gone was his serious, military demeanor. He stood relaxed, at peace, a look of profound joy etched into his expression.

  Three.

  Thog, with his shoulders impossibly broad, his face a mask of granite that beamed in greeting. Burgo, that shirtless idiot, laughing that rich, booming laugh of his. His mirth reached into the core of Koltun’s being, brought a smile to his lips.
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br />   Two.

  Caela. Beautiful, strong Caela, her jaw set in that familiar stubborn cast, head held upright. She reached for him.

  “Come on, Sarge,” she said. “The job is done. Our fight is over. Time for something better, yeah?”

  One.

  Koltun took her outstretched hand, and the Long Keeper welcomed him in a pillar of fire.

  The End.

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  Queen of Thieves

  They killed her family. They ripped apart her home. But to repay her debts, she'll have to sacrifice her innocence.

  Robbed of everything she loves, Viola mourns the sudden loss of her mother. Now burdened with an impossible debt to the Night Guild, she’s forced to train as a cunning thief. Subjected to cruelty at every turn, the scrawny criminal apprentice vows to survive long enough to become the kingdom’s best.

  Thrown together with unlikely allies, her burgeoning skills draw the attention of sadistic bullies and jealous rivals with dark intentions. But fueled by grief-filled rage, Viola won’t let anything distract her from preparing for The Guild’s most treacherous test.

  In a cutthroat den of thieves, can Viola rise to power and outrun a brutal death?

  Child of the Night Guild is the first book in the gripping Queen of Thieves epic fantasy series that’s not for the faint of heart. If you like grimdark battles, improbable heroines, and graphic scenes, then you’ll love Andy Peloquin’s unflinching coming-of-age tale.