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

Author:Andy Peloquin [Peloquin, Andy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Fantasy Fiends Publishing Inc.
Published: 2020-04-05T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

Hours had passed since Koltun’s conversation with Arch-Guardian Dayn, and still he couldn’t push the man’s written words from his thoughts. He’d fallen back to the rear of the column, finding he needed to put distance between himself and the coldly logical—or was it pragmatic?—Secret Keeper. Yet, though the sun had risen high into the sky, a deep chill settled into his bones.

Dayn’s statements went against everything Koltun believed. He had always prided himself on his willingness to throw himself at the enemy to protect his men. First into battle and last out, that had been his motto. He’d fight harder, longer, and more fiercely if it kept the soldiers around him alive.

Yet the Secret Keeper’s words made complete sense. Like an ice sculpture carved by a master craftsman, it was at once icy, perfectly crafted, and immediately understandable. The argument presented had been too rational to ignore, too well thought-out to write off as insanity, and—the thought filled Koltun with profound unease—something he could imagine himself or any sane person siding with.

Dayn wasn’t wrong. That flarequartz was a discovery that could shift the tide of battle, could give the Princelanders a weapon mighty enough to destroy the Eirdkilrs. Who knew what the Secret Keepers could come up with to harness the explosive power of that strange stone?

And yet, how could anyone condone the act of abandoning the men and women marching alongside them? Arch-Guardian Dayn could argue for the “greater good”, but faced with the deaths of the living, breathing soldiers and civilians trudging up the Cliffpass, would he truly be able to ride away and leave them to die? A part of Koltun dreaded that he would soon find out—and he wouldn’t like the answer.

With effort, he pushed the worries aside. They had worries enough to deal with at the moment.

Turning in his saddle, he studied the column moving slowly uphill behind him, the exhausted soldiers and bedraggled civilians, the bloodied bandages, makeshift crutches, the men and women leaning on each other for support. Groans and murmurs of pain mingled with the tromp, tromp of heavy Legionnaire boots, the rattling of the horse-drawn cart that carried the wounded, and the shuffling of tired feet. All around him looked ready to collapse from exhaustion and insufficient food—the supplies they’d carried out of Highcliff Motte had run out before dawn—yet they marched on. Fighting to stay upright, to stay alive.

Koltun’s gaze rested for a moment on Lingram. The youth marched at Burgo’s side near the pack horses hauling the Secret Keeper’s barrels of flarequartz. Lingram’s eyes were no longer red-rimmed from weeping, though they hadn’t lost their shadows. His face still appeared wan and washed out, his cheeks sunken by grief, fatigue, and hunger.

Or perhaps it was the clouds overhead that made him appear that way. Those dark clouds hadn’t retreated with the rising sun—if anything, they’d drawn closer, grown angrier, and filled the day with an ominous scent of impending rain and snow.

Another familiar figure caught Koltun’s sight.

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