"He always was the charmer," the Duke said, sidling his horse up to Zwindarra and giving the horse a pat. "Jaal Edrahar, Duke of Rakestraw, my lady," he said, looking up at Visyna. He doffed his helm and bowed low in the saddle in a single fluid motion that never failed to impress the ladies.
"Ah yes, the drinking partner. Shouldn't you be leading an expedition in the other direction?" she said, giving the feather a swish and swinging the muraphant back toward the rest of the herd as it followed after the regiment.
"A pleasure, my lady!" the Duke called after her, laughing loudly as he put his helmet back on. "And she only tried to kill you once, you say?" he asked Konowa.
"I didn't get a chance to turn on the charm," Konowa said, watching the muraphants disappear in a cloud of dust.
"Good lord, man, you had better start soon! I'm beginning to think there isn't a soul in this regiment who doesn't want to have a go at you."
"And my mother always said I played well with others."
"They weren't children, they were wolves. Didn't you wonder why the other tykes had furry tails?"
"I never did fit in with the tribe," Konowa said, a feeling of melancholy washing over him.
"You don't fit in anywhere, but when has that ever stopped you?"
It was Konowa's turn to laugh. "When I was seven, I was out running the hills when I came across a traveling bomak. He said he would tell me my future if I would pick him some apples high up in a tree. I did as he asked, he thanked me, and then he said, âOne day, you are going to die.'"
"You should listen to your father," Jaal said, "get in touch with nature. Maybe that will give you a better attitude about things."
"Take my word for it, Jaal," Konowa said, "up close it's just a whole lot of dirt."
The Duke smiled ruefully at his friend and held out his hand. "Swift Dragon, you are without a doubt the least elvish elf I have ever met."
Konowa took the Duke's hand. "And you're the prettiest man I know."
For a long time after the Duke had ridden away to the west, Konowa held on to a smile, the sound of his friend's laughter ringing in his ears.
EIGHTEEN
The regiment marched all morning until the sun burned directly overhead, heating the trapped air inside their shakos to furnace-like temperatures. Dust leaped from the ground with each footfall, covering their once-immaculate uniforms in a thick coating. When the order was given to halt, the soldiers quickly sought what shade they could find beside the trunks of the twisting vines. A particular stink wafted up from the vegetation, but it was still preferable to standing in the heat.
"Sweet goblin-gonads," Yimt gasped, collapsing with his back against a springy mass of vines. He spat out the leaf he'd kept clenched in his teeth to keep his bottom lip from burning under the glare of the sun and uncorked one of his canteens. In a single motion, he poured a long draught down his throat, then closed his eyes and sighed. He was the picture of contentment; sprawled on his back, head resting against his pack, drukar by his side, and the wicked-looking shatterbow lying across his lap. He pulled his "splinter" from its sheath in his stocking and started cleaning his fingernails, then used it to prop up his shako. He opened his eyes and stared at Alwyn.
"How far did they say we was going today?" he asked.
Alwyn tried to answer, but his mouth was so dry from inhaling dust that all he could manage was a cough.
"Something about some river," the soldier with one eye offered, sitting down beside them to rest his back against the vine. "We was making for a river."
Yimt shook his head, then undid the leather chinstrap on his shako, twisting the wings so he could set it upside-down beside him. He ran a hand through his greasy black hair and Alwyn noticed that the air above his head actually shimmered.
"Normally, a river sounds nice, but not in this despicable land. Nasty things, all thick and brown and not fit to drink for neither dwarf nor beast," Yimt said. He paused in his head-scratching to pull out a squirming bug between thumb and forefinger. "Would you say that's a flea or a louse?"
"Louse," Meri said, assessing the bug with his one eye.
Yimt looked down at the tiny bug and scratched his head with his other hand. "I don't know about that. No offense now, lad, but you are only giving it half an appraisal."
"I know I've been feeling weird since we got into these vines. Something don't feel right," Alwyn said, wriggling his shoulders inside his uniform. "I've got this creepy-crawly feeling like my skin isn't my own, you know?"
Yimt nodded. "Definitely ticks, they're a lot more energetic than lice. Course, fleas can get right jumpy at times, too." He struggled to sit up a little, then squished the tiny bug between thumb and forefinger. "First kill of the expedition. Whatever it was, it's dead now. Feel better?"
Alwyn shrugged and tried to think of something else.
"Oh, where are me manners?" Yimt suddenly said. "Say, Meri, is it? This here pile of complaints is Ally."
Meri stuck out his hand and shook Alwyn's. "Pleased to meet you. So, what do you think of our new regiment so far?"
Alwyn took a drink from his own canteen, the warm water turning the dust in his mouth to mud. "I don't know, I got some strange feelings about it."
"I know what you mean," Meri said. "Things ain't entirely right, if you get my meaning."
"Troll pudding," Yimt said, unbuttoning his jacket to scratch his chest. "I been thinking more about it, and you know, we are some lucky elves, especially for some skinny men and an old dwarf like me. Our knight superior is none other than the Queen's son himself. You think the old bird would send him out to get killed? After all the educating and training they put into his noggin? She ain't about to have it dashed in by some native chucking a spear. I figure we're just out here to show the flag, let the Prince play at soldier for a bit then back we go to a nice safe camp. And you notice how airy things feel marching in these caernas?" Yimt asked, moving his scratching in a southerly direction. "It's freedom it is, specially in this infernal place. Feels darn right to me."
"I think I'm blind," Alwyn said in mock horror, turning away as Yimt continued to scratch. He caught Meri staring at him with his one good eye and suddenly felt ashamed. "Er, I didn't mean nothing by it, Meri," he said.
"That's all right. There are a few advantages, you know."
"Really, like what?" Alwyn asked, ignoring Yimt, who was making a big display of rearranging his caerna.
For an answer, Meri lifted the patch over his eye and pulled a small snuff box out of the socket. "Only place I ever found to keep it dry," he said, holding the little silver box out to Yimt and Alwyn.
"That's okay, thanks," Alwyn said, struggling to keep the water in his stomach from charging back up his throat.
"Don't mind if I do," Yimt said, taking a pinch and sticking it between his steel-colored teeth and lower lip. "Adds a bit of extra kick to the crute."
Alwyn was wondering if anything bothered Yimt when he sensed a presence and turned to see Corporal Kritton standing nearby. Ever since they'd killed the rakke the other night, the corporal had withdrawn into himself, barely talking to anyone. Normally, Alwyn would have enjoyed that, but there was something unsettling about the look in the elf's eyes, something not quite right. Before Alwyn knew what he was doing, he found himself calling out to him.
"Hey, Corporal, how far we going today?"
The elf turned toward Alwyn with a look of pure hatred. Kritton's upper lip twitched and his fists balled up, then he abruptly spun on his heel and walked away, disappearing from sight behind a large vine. Alwyn found his mouth was half open and closed it with care, taking a deep breath as his heart started beating again.
"Well that's just rude, that is," Yimt said. He'd reached over and taken the ramrod from Alwyn's musket and was busy scratching himself underneath his stockings. "A nice lad like yourself tries to be social and engage in polite conversation and what do you get for it? Our Corp just ain't the same he ain't, not since he met up with the major."
Meri leaned closer. "I heard that he has it in for the major on account of the regiment being disbanded, but that's not the half of it. Hrem over in B Company said that we're not going to relieve the garrison at Luuguth Jor at all. There's some kind of treasure buried there, some jewel called the Star of something, and the Prince is going to dig it up and take it back to Celwyn. All the talk about rakkes and the Shadow Monarch is just a smokescreen."
Yimt stopped scratching. "Smokescreen my aunt's hairy chest. Ally and I killed one of them beasts sure as I'm sitting here now. They're real, and that means that elf-witch across the ocean is, too, and She's up to something."
"But why reform the Iron Elves?" Alwyn asked. A terrible thought came to him. "You don't think they mean for us to fight Her?"
Before Yimt or Meri could answer, sergeants were shouting for the regiment to fall in.
Alwyn grabbed his musket and levered himself up. He turned to give a hand to Yimt, who was struggling to rise.
"This heat too much for you?" Alwyn asked jokingly, secretly worried that the old dwarf might not be up to the rigors of a long march. Light infantry regiments typically marched at a pace of 120 steps per minute, significantly faster than the 75 of a regular regiment. The Iron Elves, when they had been all elves, were reported to have sustained 150 steps a minute for a full day's march, but Alwyn knew that was impossible…at least, he knew there was no way he could do it.
"I'll march you young pups straight into the ground," Yimt grunted, finally getting to his feet.
"You were caught in the vine. Look," Meri said, pulling a long strand of vegetation from Yimt's belts.
"Well I'll be boiled in a witch's pot," Yimt said, holding the vine up to get a better look. "If I didn't know better I'd say the bugger was trying to keep us here." He threw it to the dirt and ground it in with the heel of his boot. Yimt bent down and grabbed his shako, taking a quick peek inside before jamming it on his head. "They don't pay us enough, not by half," he said, stepping quickly away from their temporary shelter.
As they walked back toward the dusty road where the companies were forming up, Alwyn couldn't help looking over his shoulder. The vines remained where they were, a tangled green mass of rotten-smelling vegetation. So why did he feel that if he turned his back on them, they'd pounce like a dragon on a goat?
NINETEEN
The regiment resumed its march, tramping ever eastward in a choking white haze. After the steamy wet confines of the forest, Konowa felt completely exposed and constantly scanned the surrounding plain for signs of danger. The view was better from atop Zwindarra, but his legs were aching from standing up in the saddle to save the muscles of his backside from further insult. He had finally decided to try sitting again when he spotted a dust plume rapidly gaining on the column from the west.
"Prince Tykkin," Konowa said, pointing back down the trail.
"Likely more supplies," the Prince remarked, and rode on, his eyes scanning the ground in front of them. Probably looking for some damn insect, Konowa thought.
"I'll just check it out then, sir," Konowa said, saluting and cantering Zwindarra back toward the oncoming visitor. "You four," he said, pointing to a group of soldiers as they marched past, "fall out and follow me." He was pleased to see they began loading their muskets without being told to do so.
Konowa tried to find Kritton as the rest of the column marched past, but the dust and the bobbing horse made it difficult and he soon gave it up. He did see Visyna's muraphant and nodded, but he was past before he could see if she responded.
By the time he came to the end of the column, the dust cloud was upon him. From out of the swirling dirt came a covered wagon driven by a figure in a gray cloak and drawn by four of the ugliest horses Konowa had ever seen.
"Glad I finally caught up with you," the stranger said, hauling in the steeds.
Two wizened hands pushed back the hood of the cloak to reveal an old human woman.
Konowa motioned for the soldiers who had accompanied him to catch up with the column. He turned back to the woman and doffed his shako and bowedtemporarily losing his balance before righting himself.
"Major Konowa Ul-Osveen, sub knight commander, the Hynta Light Infantry," he said, trying and failing to nudge Zwindarra closer to the wagon.
"The Iron Elves," she replied, taking a large cigar and clamping it between exceptionally yellow teeth. "Commanded by His Royal Arseness the Prince." Her face crinkled like a sun-dried prune, and she smiled at him through a wreath of dark blue smoke. "But I'm guessing from the politely stunned look on your face that you haven't the foggiest crystal ball who I am."
Konowa was hot, his backside felt alternately numb and on fire, and the cursed high collar on his jacket was rubbing his neck raw. He really didn't feel up to a guessing game, but something held the insult between his teeth. After all, she was the first new person he'd met in some time who hadn't tried to kill him on sight.
"I must confess, dear lady, that you have the advantage."
Her laugh sounded like a flock of startled crows, and Zwindarra's head reared up in surprise.
"You are a charmer. Name's Rallie Synjyn."
Konowa leaned forward in his saddle for a closer look. "I'm sorry, you're the Rallie Synjyn?" Her Majesty's Scribe of the Imperial Weekly Herald was famous the Empire over, and only partly because of her incredible knack for being at the right place at the right time. Almost as many stories had been written about Rallie as she had written herself, and most were so outlandish, involving strange sightings and bizarre happenings, that no one, least of all Konowa, knew what to believe. Naturally, it sold a lot of parchment.
"One and the same," she said. "Of course, I used to be Rallina, but folks don't want to read about battles and adventure from someone quite so girly sounding, and you know, it's all about getting paid. Fortunately, the Queen understands that better than most, plus," she said, giving him a wink, "the old gal recognizes a good quill when she sees one."
Konowa decided he liked Rallie Synjyn, a lot. "What brings you out here?" he asked, opting to reveal nothing he didn't want to hear a news crier yelling a week later.
Rallie started laughing and slapped her knee with her hand, sending up a cloud of dust that combined with the cigar smoke to hide her from sight. It took a moment before she reappeared. "Certainly not to document the meanderings of Prince Precious up there. The reformation of the Iron Elves is news, Major, big news. It was a pity what happened to you and your boys, a right shame. Putting cold steel in that bastard was a favor for the world over. Up to no good, that one. I am glad to see you back in the saddle again, although I can only imagine what it's like to not have your elves with you."
Konowa suddenly found it hard to see. Rallie chose to fiddle with something behind her for a few moments, giving him time to compose himself.
"I can't imagine the Imperial Army will be thrilled that you're here," he finally said, "whatever the Queen thinks."
Rallie turned back to him, her shoulders shaking with laughter. "The General Staff think I'm more of a threat than a herd of dragons, but the Queen likes the idea of keeping her generals honest by having at least one newt in the potion." She took another puff of her cigar and let out a slow, long breath, eyeing Konowa up and down. "Actually, I'd make that two newts."
Konowa tried to look innocent. "Me? I'm a paragon of virtue. I follow orders."
Rallie laughed so hard tiny smoke rings popped out of her nose. Shaking her head as she regained her composure, she fixed him with a hard stare. "Not too strenuously, I hope. I think a time is soon coming when you'll need to take matters into your own hands."
He imagined his hands wrapped around the Prince's necka tempting proposition. "My job is to bring this regiment back, and in one piece. I'll see it done, no matter what."
"Best to let the Prince think he had something to do with it," she said, motioning toward the head of the column. She clucked at her steeds, who were straying toward the vines. "He thinks I'm here to write glowing st
ories about him for the court. You know the stuff; he leads a regiment into a deep, dark corner of the Empire, slaughters a few natives, grabs some baubles and magic totems, stubs a toe getting off his horse, and goes back home a hero, replete with wound stripe on his sleeve and war stories to woo the courtesans out of their hoop skirts."
"Surely the Queen wouldn't let you write that?" Konowa asked, spurring Zwindarra to keep up.
Rallie placed a finger against the side of her nose and winked, her eye disappearing in flaps of tanned, leathery skin. "The day you assume you know the mind of a monarch, any monarch, is the day you likely lose your own, along with the skull that holds it. There's more to this than meets the eye, Major, you can count on that."
"You're not the first person to say so."
"Your father is an astute old bugger," Rallie replied. "You should listen to him. Strange things are afoot. That's why I'm here. There's a story coming like a Star from the heavens. The key is to not stand directly underneath it when it falls."
Konowa couldn't hide the surprise on his face.
"The ears may not be elven, but they suffice," she responded. Shaking her head with glee, she drew another great puff on the cigar so that its tip glowed bright orange.
"Then it's true? There really is a Star there? What about the Viceroy?"
Rallie shook her head. "I suspect much, but at the moment can prove little. I hate to sound like a daft old bat, but I feel something deep in my bones, something terribly wrong in the world. It's as if everything is slowly being twisted out of focus." She suddenly looked embarrassed. "The questions are many. The answers, I think, will be found in Luuguth Jor."
Konowa tipped his shako to her and rode in silence for a while, thinking.
The first elven Viceroy of the Calahrian Empire turned out to be a traitor in the service of the Shadow Monarch, and Konowa, as commanding officer of the only elven regiment in the Imperial Army, killed him. Simple enough. Only the Viceroy didn't die, or did die and has now come back as Her Emissary, looking for what should have been just a children's talea red shooting star. Not so simple. Myths becoming reality and the dead becoming, well, less so. Like the rakkes, extinct for hundreds of years, suddenly reappearing and knowing his name. That was no coincidence, of that much he was sure. The Shadow Monarch was looking for him. He gripped the reins tighter. She wouldn't have to look much longer. If Her Emissary was prowling around that miserable little fort at Luuguth Jor, She'd soon find out exactly where Konowa Swift Dragon was, and what he was capable of.
A Darkness Forged in Fire Page 15
