A Darkness Forged in Fire

by Chris (chris R. ) Evans

  "You've been in battle before—you've given orders and seen men die." "But not like this! What's happening to them?"

  Konowa looked more closely at the body of the corporal. The large vein in his neck pulsed slowly, as if the heart still beat, but he knew better. "The tree will feed on the blood of the victim, drawing sustenance until it has consumed it. Whether it also feeds on the soul, I do not know."

  That was too much for Lorian. "The soul! We have to stop it." He lunged forward to grab the sapling, but Konowa caught him by the arm and restrained him. When Lorian stepped back Konowa let go, then reached out with both his hands and grabbed the trunk. Every midnight fear, every chilling tale told in the dark hours when he was a child, raced through his veins as the cool ichor oozed between his fingers. And then came the anger.

  Konowa's rejection in the birthing meadow of the Wolf Oaks flashed in his mind and he clenched the sapling tighter. The acorn against his chest surged with cold fury, infusing his body with its energy. The constant murmur of life evaporated, replaced by the anguished cries of the dead soldier and the voracious hunger of the sapling. Each sensed his presence and dug its need into his mind. Konowa grunted and pulled the tree out, the body jerking as if the strings to a puppet had been cut. Black, clotted earth clung to the roots, which wriggled about in vain trying to find something to latch on to. The smell of death grew worse. The voices in his head grew louder. The fire inside him burned colder still.

  Konowa squeezed the trunk harder and forced the frost fire into the sapling. The soldier's screams drowned as the sapling absorbed the burning cold like a sponge, but frost soon began to sparkle along its leaves, and it, too, began to scream. Black flames danced along its length, leaping from branch to leaf, consuming it.

  When there was little more than ash, Konowa threw it to the ground, gasping for air. He looked at his hands. The ichor had burned off, leaving them impossibly clean. The voices were gone, the unending murmur of life rushing back into the void.

  "Major, are you all right?" Lorian asked, laying a hand on his shoulder. He immediately withdrew it with a shout, his glove covered in hoar frost.

  Konowa caught his breath and looked up. "I'm fine. I guess it was cursed after all," he lied, looking back at the pile of ash. Already the heat of the day was returning to his skin, and he wiped a sleeve across his forehead.

  "What happened? What does it mean?" Lorian asked, mesmerized by the smoking ash.

  "Nothing of importance!" the Prince called out, riding up to them at a canter and bringing his suddenly skittish mount to a halt by sawing back hard on the reins. The horse danced about, refusing to settle. The whites of its eyes showed and the Prince had to constantly pull the reins to keep it from bolting. "I will not have soldiers of the Empire spooked like dumb horses by these things!" he said, finally reaching forward to slap his mount between the ears with the end of the reins. "These men were killed by the rebels. Whatever sorcery is at work is ancillary and of no consequence, and that is all the troops need to know. Our primary goal is the Star." The Prince looked back to the column of troops marching toward them.

  Konowa rose, gingerly stretching his leg. The sensation of frost fire pouring through his hands made them shake, and he pressed them firmly against his thighs.

  "With all due respect, sir," Konowa said, "the men are not stupid. They have a fairly good idea what we're about, and what we might be facing. I always found it better to level with them. They fight better when they know why." Not that he would tell them everything.

  The horse danced around in a circle before the Prince got it under control again. He brought it back close to Konowa and leaned down from his saddle until it appeared he would topple right out of it. "All they need to know is that I am the colonel of this regiment and the Prince of Calahr. My orders will be obeyed or they will swing." He sat up straight again in the saddle. "The rebels will pay for this," he said loudly, so that the passing soldiers might hear. Lowering his voice, he continued. "There's no time to bury the bodies. Uproot the trees, put everything in the hut, and burn it all. Now."

  Konowa silently cursed Marshal Ruwl and his father for making him nursemaid this fool. The urge to reach up and grab the Prince from his saddle and burn him instead flashed through Konowa, but he fought it—barely.

  "Yes, sir, right away." He saluted and watched the Prince take off at a gallop as the horse tore away from the macabre scene as fast as it could.

  "You heard His Highness," Konowa said, making no attempt to hide his anger and his contempt. He motioned for Lorian to look after the body of the corporal while he moved to the next tree.

  It was the same each time. The cold would surge in Konowa and the sapling would try to absorb it, while the soul of the dead soldier cried out in fear and anguish. Each time, both were consumed, and it got easier to focus the energy. He was about to burn the hut in the same manner when he sensed Lorian's presence behind him. There was no threat, yet Konowa grew colder as the frost fire raced through his veins. It was as if the world was a blazing white sheet of snow with red slashes of life staining it. The need to purify it, purify all of it, clawed its way up inside Konowa until he could think of nothing else. He turned.

  Lorian stared at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. He was holding one of the razor-edged leaves in his bare hand. Frost crawled along the leaf's surface, sparkling like black diamonds. And then the same consuming flame that burned the saplings flared up, and a moment later the leaf was ash, and Lorian's hand, like Konowa's, showed no injury.

  "What have you done to us?" Lorian whispered, flexing his fingers as if seeing his hand for the first time.

  It felt like a dam bursting. The sense of power and exhilaration vanished, leaving Konowa staggering.

  What had he done?

  What had his father given him? He looked down at the bodies in the hut and for a moment saw the bodies of the elves he had once known.

  This was not his birthright—this was his curse.

  The sound of marching feet passing by the hut brought him back. Konowa stood up straight and adjusted his uniform. "Get a pound of powder and a length of slow match and destroy this." He didn't wait for Lorian to reply, stepping out of the hut just as Rallie's wagon came by. Visyna was sitting beside her, and both of them looked at him as it rolled past.

  He'd expected anger, outrage, even threats. Instead, as the wagon creaked past, the brindos honking and swishing their stubby tails, Jir padding alongside still looking up at the top of the wagon for the pelican, Konowa had to turn away. It wasn't rage he saw in their eyes, it was pity…and fear.

  FORTY-ONE

  Luuguth Jor hugged a bend in the Baynama River, a thick, dark ribbon of water that meandered through the central plains of Elfkyna like a constrictor, curling around the village set out in a brown crescent on its western bank. A dozen squat mud-and-grass huts sat well protected within the small peninsula created by the oxbow of the forever-changing river beneath a small grass-covered hill that rose a few hundred feet behind the village. Vine-lashed piers made of roughly cut logs jutted out into the water below the huts like fingers of a gnarled old hand. It was here that the villagers got into their tiny, flat-bottomed kios and paddled out into the center of the river to string finely woven mesh nets to catch ijuk, river turtles, and bara jogg. The catch was then brought back to the piers where the women gutted and filleted the fish, tossing the entrails back into the water to thank the gods for their bounty. The heads of the fish, however, were taken to the top of the hill and burned there, allowing the spirits of the animals to escape in the smoke and be reborn in the river with the next rain. Legend told of a Star falling from the heavens in that place at the very birth of the world. So they followed the ritual, and the fish remained plentiful and their lives peaceful.

  And then the siggers came. The soldiers planted a pretty green-and-silver flag on top of the hill and claimed it for the Empire. They labored for months to raise a high mud wall all the way around the top of the hill, festooned it
with cactus thorn, and then sat in it, staring out at the river. The elfkynan told the siggers they should not build there, for it would anger the gods. They told them the story of the Star.

  And where is this Star? the siggers had asked. Did it fall back up into the sky? The village witch made the appropriate warding signs and warned the siggers that the Star would one day return. The siggers laughed and bought the fish heads from the women and used them to make soup. The spirits would have their revenge one day, the witch had said.

  The witch never lived to see the spirits' revenge. A cold black arrow crafted by a magic far older than hers pierced her breast, killing her instantly.

  Visyna covered her mouth with her hand as she looked down at the remains of the witch. A twisted black tree grew through her to reach its misshapen branches out to intertwine with the branches of others of its kind dotted all around the village and fortress, forming a U against the river. The trees were already taller than Visyna, their metaled leaves moving menacingly though no wind blew or rain fell. There were hundreds of trees, though it was difficult to tell where one ended and another began. She closed her eyes and immediately sensed their roots crawling deeper into the earth. The land here was changed, far more so than the vines where the faeraugs had sheltered. Her magic would not be sufficient to destroy them.

  Not like his.

  It was a sobering thought. She opened her eyes and knelt on the earth, placing a hand on the ground. It was like touching cold iron.

  "In all my years of reporting, I have never seen anything more foreboding," Rallie said, angling her sketchbook to catch the moonlight as she drew the black forest that now grew where Luuguth Jor had once stood. The two women stood by Rallie's wagon on the edge of the village, while a scouting party moved through the gap in the trees by the river to check out the fortress within. "It fills one with a particular sense of dread, as if winter has arrived early. Great and terrible things are bound to follow. Oh, my, yes."

  Visyna took one more look at the dead witch, knowing that could easily be her, and turned away. She was shocked to see a tiny smile on Rallie's face.

  "Rallie! Don't you see, Konowa and the Iron Elves are the harbinger of the coming storm. I thought when he felt the natural order, he would finally understand."

  "Or when he felt you?" Rallie asked. "Do not give up on the major, Visyna. He cares deeply for you even if he has trouble showing it. Love is a powerful weapon, but like all weapons, it depends on how one uses it."

  "I know he cares, but he loves the Iron Elves more. He would do anything for them," she said, bitterness lacing her words.

  "As you would for your land and your people. The two of you are more alike than either will admit. As soon as we deal with this little matter," she said, waving at the trees, "I see I am going to have to improve my chaperoning skills."

  "Little matter? Rallie, the very world hangs in the balance and you talk as if you enjoy it."

  Rallie stopped sketching and turned to look at her, all trace of a smile gone. "Of course I do not enjoy this. But I am a reporter of events, an observer of all things, and most importantly, a writer. I suffer from a disease few, fortunately, will ever contract. I need to be where fire burns hottest, or the wind blows coldest. It's there, where the tapestry of the world gets burned and ripped to shreds and another is woven new, that history lives, and dies. Our major, whether it be fate or by his own design, and the Iron Elves, and I daresay, us, too, have become one of those places."

  As she talked, her face flushed and the years of hard living seemed to melt away, revealing a youthful, bright soul, yet one tempered by the sadness of having seen more than any person should. Realizing Visyna was staring at her, she turned back to her sketchbook. Her quill hovered above the paper, though, and she tilted her head to the side.

  "Pray, my child, that you never catch this disease of mine. It is both pleasure and horror, and while I would not wish it on anyone, I would fight with every ounce of my strength if someone were to try to cure me of it. But enough of my life story," Rallie said, scratching her nose with the feather end of her quill while looking at Visyna. "You were telling me about the Star."

  Visyna shivered. "I shouldn't have said anything."

  Rallie cackled lightly, turning back to her drawing. Her hand moved with quick, fluid strokes across the page. "Ah, but you did. I had no idea a Star could talk, or that it would be so feeble as to need to hide itself from view."

  "I do not know how to explain it; it is a feeling. The Star has been gone a long time, as have all the Stars. It is energy, but still weak after centuries of being gone." Hearing it said out loud made the entire situation all sound a bit foolish.

  "Indeed," Rallie said, clucking as she turned over the page and began a new sketch. "And you are sure this is the Eastern Star?"

  "I was," she said truthfully. "It comes to me when I call. It even warned me of the danger Konowa would become, and we have seen it come to pass. This regiment is cursed. The taint of the Shadow Monarch's evil is upon them."

  Rallie shrugged her shoulders and continued to draw. "Perhaps. Then again, power is most often neutral, and can be used for good or ill. It depends on the wielder. I have faith in our major, as troubled as he is. For that matter, I have faith in you. You could have burned the faeraugs to a cinder, but you chose not to. That is no small thing, free will." Rallie paused again in her sketching and cast a sidelong glance at Visyna. "Let me know when you speak to this Star again—I'd love the chance to interview it for my story."

  Visyna wanted to say no, then stopped herself. Why not? If this truly was the Eastern Star, why should it be secret? She remembered the touch of Kritton's hand on her skin and more riddles emerged.

  "Questions to ponder, my dear, questions to ponder," Rallie said softly, the scritch of her quill across paper starting up again.

  Visyna knew it was time she took the correspondent's advice.

  "The trees won't burn with just fire, and we don't have enough powder to destroy the entire forest, sir," Lorian said, pointedly not looking at Konowa as he directed his answers to the Prince. Lorian gripped his halberd as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling. "For some reason, the area in and around the fortress is clear. It looks like they killed the soldiers there, then dragged their bodies out of the fort to enclose the fortress and the village. We're completely encircled except for right here."

  Right here was a twenty-yard gap between the river and the treeline on the other side of the road leading into Luuguth Jor. They stood in the middle of the road looking up at the destroyed fortress. Konowa waited for the Prince to comprehend the folly of entering the forest-ringed position, but the Prince only nodded.

  "We really should pull back, sir," Konowa finally said. "We'd be walking into a trap if we go in there. There's no sign of the Star or the previous Viceroy. He may have already found it."

  The Prince sniffed and shook his head. He rested a boot on an overturned drum of the Thirty-fifth Foot, its stretched hide skin torn and covered in the blood of the young boy who had carried it. Oblivious, he looked up the hill, crossing his arms on his knee as he bent forward in what Konowa was sure the Prince thought was a martial pose.

  "You see that fortress, Major," he said, pointing to the crumbled walls on top of the hill. His boot heel echoed hollowly on the drum, a ghostly accompaniment to his proud speech. "That will be our bastion. What better place to plant the Colors and make our stand. Raise the banner of Calahr high and let the enemy know that Luuguth Jor is once again in Imperial hands. The Star is here, Major, I can feel it! It's waiting for the right moment to reveal itself. Well, when the Colors of the Prince of Calahr fly over Luuguth Jor, the enemy will be drawn here like moths to a flame. And when they show themselves, they will dash themselves against our defenses and be defeated. This forest," he said, sweeping a hand dismissively at the ugly black growth that even now writhed around them, "shall be their undoing. They'll have to funnel through this gap to get to the fortress, and when they
do, we will have them."

  "Elfkynan rebels are one thing, but this," Konowa said, looking around at the forest, "this is something else. The Thirty-fifth Foot didn't stand a chance." Bits of uniform fluttered from jagged branches, reminding him of dockside sendoffs as wives and girlfriends waved their handkerchiefs and dabbed at tears for soldiers never to come home again.

  "Lack of moral fiber, Major," the Prince replied. "Troops grow soft on garrison duty without a firm hand to keep them in line. Clearly, that was the case with the Thirty-fifth. Obviously caught by surprise, no doubt. Well, the Iron Elves won't be caught napping, not while I'm in charge." The Prince stood up straight and patted Konowa on the back. "Have heart, Major. The trees, as fascinating as they are, are of no direct concern to us." He waved at the forest as if it was just one more exotic bit of flora to be catalogued, an example that would be uprooted, tagged, and carefully wrapped and taken back to Celwyn to be planted in the royal maze. "If this is the best the Shadow Monarch can do, then She is already defeated. Don't you see, the forest has actually strengthened our defenses by providing us with a wall far stronger than those of the fort. We'd be foolish not to make use of Her mistake."

  Lorian said something under his breath. Prince Tykkin turned to look at him. "You have something to add, RSM?"

  Lorian started to shake his head…then stood up a little straighter and answered. "It's just that they're men, sir. This place is cursed, and it has them spooked. They don't understand what's going on. They're simple soldiers, they just want to do their duty and get home again. No one signed up for this." The last part was said staring directly at Konowa.

  The Prince, as usual, chose to hear it differently. "If there are cowards in the ranks, RSM, we shall deal with them accordingly. Surely this regiment is made of tougher stuff; surely no little old elf-witch can scare them so."

  Konowa could see Lorian was on the verge of saying something he couldn't take back. "What the RSM meant, sir," Konowa said, walking a few paces off to the side to draw the Prince's attention, "is that none of them have ever come up against anything like this before, and it has them excitable, eve of battle and all."