by Chris Evans
Scolfelton Erinmoss, son of the Earl of Boryn, lay sleeping beside the gun, his mouth open, with drool hanging from his bottom lip. Despite his upper-class pedigree, he was simply known as Scolly. An apple-sized divot in the back of his head caused by a childhood injury had rendered him imbecilic and prone to angry outbursts. It had not, however, if the rumors were to be believed, made him ineligible to be the next Earl of Boryn.
Inkermon sat on a wooden crate, writing a never-ending letter, having gone to eleven pieces of parchment, both sides. To whom it was addressed remained a closely guarded secret and of some interest to the other soldiers. He looked up, sniffed and shook his head, and went back to his writing, mumbling about how they were all going to burn.
Beside Inkermon, Hrem Vulhber, a welcome addition to the group, reclined his massive bulk against an equally massive oak timber. He was reading an old copy of the Imperial Weekly Herald, his lips moving as he did so. Less welcome was the soldier leaning against the carronade and riffling through a small leather pouch. Zwitty laughed as he pulled out a small chunk of gold and put it in a hidden pocket inside his upturned shako. Alwyn thought the piece looked very much like a tooth, but said nothing.
“Out plundering again, Zwitty?” Teeter asked, pointing his unlit pipe at him. The ex-sailor with a limp that threatened to topple him over with each step had strung up a hammock from the low ceiling and was gently swaying with the motion of the ship.
“To the victors go the spoils,” Zwitty said, quickly putting the leather pouch away and tucking his shako under his arm. “There’s been loot on every island if you’ve got half a brain to look for it.”
“You mean dead natives,” Hrem said, looking up from his reading.
Zwitty made a long face. “That’s right. They’s dead, ain’t they? Finders keepers, I always says.”
“Robbing from the dead is one thing,” Hrem said, “but these poor souls we find out here are cursed. You take from them, you take the curse.”
A large vein began to throb noticeably on Zwitty’s forehead. “Cursed? You want to talk about curses! We’re the unlucky bastards that got cursed. The way I see it, we’re owed. We’re owed more than our wages and more than some stinkin’ ten gold pieces the Prince is offering for finding one of them dirty black elves alive.”
“Steady on, Zwitty, you’re getting yourself all worked up,” Teeter said. “This ain’t half bad, what we got here. Grog and wine for your drink, two hot meals a day, and a hammock to keep your bones off the floor.”
Zwitty spat onto the deck. “If it’s so grand, why are you in the army then, and not still in your precious navy, eh?”
Alwyn found his fist clenching and made a point to fold the cleaning rag up instead.
Teeter’s cheeks flushed. “I missed my ship when she set sail for the Battle of the Inthaal Sea, and they nailed me for doin’ a runner. Said I was lacking in moral fiber in the face of the enemy when all I was was drunk and sleeping it off. The lads shoulda come get me before they shipped out, but the bastards didn’t.”
Zwitty grinned. Alwyn found himself folding the rag so tight he was creating a small red dust cloud in his hands.
“So you’re not a coward then, just a drunk? Hardly seems better. Not that it matters anyway, because you’re as doomed as the rest of us.” He looked around at them. “Don’t you get it, our holy roller there’s got it right,” he said, pointing to Inkermon, who began to write even faster. “We’ve been press-ganged into something none of us signed up for. You know what they say about curses, though…” Zwitty said, letting the thought hang in the air.
Alwyn actually didn’t know what they said and was about to ask, but Teeter sat up straight in his hammock and pointed his pipe at Zwitty.
“You just stow that kind of talk right now.”
Zwitty sneered. “I’m not saying nothing, but if a certain someone were to lose their head, I’d wager we’d be free of this curse before his pointy ear hit the—”
A large, meaty hand belonging to Private Hrem Vulhber shot across the top of the carronade and grabbed Zwitty by the collar. “When’s the last time you went topside for a nice long walk? Personally, I think you’re overdue.”
Zwitty’s face began turning purple. He dropped his shako to the deck, spilling the contents while both hands clawed at Hrem’s, trying to pry himself loose. Finally, Hrem released him and Zwitty stumbled backward, drawing in great gasping breaths. “I could have you up on charges for that. There are witnesses.”
Alwyn looked at the other soldiers lounging about the carronade.
“No one saw anything, Zwitty,” Alwyn said, reaching down to pick up Zwitty’s shako. Zwitty grabbed it out of his hand and quickly stuffed his fallen loot back inside.
“You’re all fools. We can end this curse, but none of you has the guts to do it.”
“Guts to do what?”
Alwyn looked up as Yimt appeared from behind another carronade and strolled up to stand beside Zwitty. Despite his significantly shorter stature, the dwarf simply exuded confidence that made him appear like a giant.
“Zwitty here was just telling us how he’s going to try walking along the railing up top,” Hrem said. “Says he can make it all the way round the ship without falling over. Wants us to try it with him, but we’re all rather comfy here at the moment, so he’s off to try it alone. Ain’t that right, Zwitty?”
Zwitty glared at Hrem, but only nodded.
“Well, aren’t you the daring fellow,” Yimt said, patting Zwitty firmly on the arm and propelling him away from the group. “Off you go then, and watch when you get near the bow. The major’s been revisiting his last couple of meals up there and the wood’s a bit slick.”
Zwitty muttered something none of them could hear and quickly strode away. It wasn’t until Zwitty had disappeared from sight that Alwyn realized he had been holding his breath and let it out slowly.
“Now then, what are you reprobates up to?” Yimt asked, leaning against the swell of the carronade’s muzzle and rubbing his back against the iron.
“Oh, discussing the whys and whats of life and love,” Hrem said, flexing his hand as he got comfortable again against the oak rib. “Out getting some fresh air again, were you? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t like it down here.”
Yimt stiffened, then smiled and laughed. “What’s not to like? It smells like a dead sheep around here.”
Alwyn took a cautious sniff, then immediately regretted his decision. They really did smell like dead sheep. Very old, very wet, and very dead sheep.
“Tain’t our fault,” Teeter offered from his hammock. “The soap they give us is made of mutton fat.”
“You’ve used it then?” Yimt asked.
Teeter waved his unlit pipe in the affirmative. “In a manner of speaking. I traded it to one of the sailors for some chewing tobacco. Can’t smoke down here, more’s the pity.”
“Oh, you’re a clever bunch, you lot,” Yimt said, bowing his head as if in great sorrow. “It’s a wonder the Empire’s lasted as long as it has if this is the caliber of siggers there are to defend it.”
“You could always jump ship and swim for it,” Hrem said. “Of course, with those metal teeth of yours, I imagine you’d go right to the bottom.”
“I’ll have you know I’m a first-rate swimmer. The mines fill up with water more than you’d think. If a dwarf can’t swim and hold his breath, he ain’t got much of a future. And speaking of futures,” Yimt said, catching Alwyn’s eye and giving him a wink, “yours might be shorter than you think in this elite gathering if you don’t mind your manners. It’s by my good graces alone that you were allowed to join such esteemed company,” Yimt said, pushing himself away from the carronade to walk over and sit on a large coil of rope. “Of course, Private Vulhber, I could assign you to the Color Party. They’re always looking for big lads that can stop a musket ball.”
Hrem made a show of pondering this, though everyone knew the answer. Being a member of the Color Party w
as a great honor, right up until it stopped being one when you were dead. The enemy always tried to capture the Colors, making the guarding of them crucial in every battle. It also meant you were a prime target. Alwyn himself had volunteered for the Color Party three times now, but Yimt had denied his request.
“No one here’s looking to be a hero,” Hrem said, “well, ’cept maybe Ally there. You keep charging ahead of us like that and you’re bound to come to a sticky end.”
Alwyn smiled and tried to wave it off. “I just get my blood up, you know? I’m not trying to be anything.”
“You’ll be a Darkly Departed is what you’ll be if you don’t watch it,” Teeter added. “You don’t want to be joining our dead like Meri and the rest of those poor souls.”
“I can take care of myself,” Alwyn said. He could feel the color coming to his cheeks. This was nothing he wanted to talk about.
“Now, now, leave the lad alone. He’s young, he’s foolish, and he’s got a magical tree for a leg,” Yimt said. “I think it’s just a matter of the wood wanting to get ashore so it can plant itself and start sprouting some leaves.”
Laughter echoed off the timbers and Alwyn found himself chuckling.
“You mock his plight,” Inkermon said, setting down his parchment and pointing his quill at Yimt.
“He’s just kidding,” Alwyn said. “There’s still hope.”
“Hope? You mock that, too,” Inkermon said. “You all mock this…this abomination that has befallen us. Do you not see? Our curse grows with every passing day. The foul temptress haunts our dreams even as She calls forth creatures long dead, and now the very earth we walk attacks us, burning our very souls alive.”
There was only the sound of the wind and the creaking of wood. Inkermon had touched on something none of them wanted to talk about. Alwyn and Hrem looked at each other, then quickly looked away. Feeling his shadow burn had been pain beyond his experience, but there had been something else as well. For a moment, before he extinguished the white fire, Alwyn had felt a clarity and sense of peace that he had not known since taking the Blood Oath. It was as if Her powers were being cleansed from his very soul.
Yimt slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “Right. Put a big bloody cork in it, all of you,” he said, turning to look each one of them in the eye. “What is or isn’t the state of our eternal rest is a conversation for another day. Right now, it’s time. Grab your kit and get topside. We’re going to honor the poor bastards while the weather holds.”
Hrem climbed to his feet and began buttoning up his tunic. He gave Scolly a gentle nudge with his boot. Scolly opened one eye and looked around.
“Are we going to bury them now?”
No one said anything. Finally, Alwyn nodded. “Yes, Scolly, we’re going to bury them now.”
Scolly opened the other eye and sat up, stretching and yawning as he did so. “Only, I was having a dream and the Shadow Monarch was there. She seemed…happy.”
SEVEN
The wind began to swirl, snapping the canvas sailcloth above their heads like the musket fire they’d become all too familiar with. Alwyn kept his eyes on the four bodies laid out on the deck in front of him. Each dead soldier was sewn into an old hammock. Iron ingots from the ship’s ballast had been placed inside first to ensure the bodies slid out of sight quickly, but experience had shown it wouldn’t matter. The Queen’s Colors draped each body, though the flags would remain as the bodies were pushed over the side. They were bound to be used again.
The regiment formed a three-sided square around the bodies, although this meant many soldiers were perched on barrels, crates, and parts of the ship in order to see. No sailors were present. Even the ship’s captain, Captain Ervod, was absent. He’d insisted on presiding over the first ceremony, but after the shock of the first one, Captain Ervod left it to the regiment to handle.
Prince Tykkin stood off to one side, tapping a white-gloved hand against his sword hilt. The silvery-green of his uniform jacket looked new and was a marked exception to the dull appearance of his men. Even Major Swift Dragon’s uniform looked grubby by comparison. It was only natural that the future King look the part, but Alwyn knew the main reason was that the Prince stayed on board while the Iron Elves cleared each island. It spoke volumes that no soldier ever complained about it; they all preferred the Prince out of sight.
Major Swift Dragon made a motion to Yimt, who took a step forward. “Parade…attention!” The soldiers came to attention as best they could. Captain Ervod was struggling to keep the ship steady, but the seas did not appear to be cooperating.
Prince Tykkin nodded to himself, then began speaking. The first few words were carried away by the wind, but Alwyn knew the speech by heart. Everyone did. The Prince went through the motions, exalting the fallen, though Alwyn doubted he would even recognize them.
“…through their sacrifice the Empire will survive, and the light of civilization will shine in all the corners of the world…”
As the Prince spoke, Alwyn looked around the formation. Anticipation and apprehension filled the air. Coughs and shuffling feet were muffled by the wind, but there was no hiding the looks in men’s eyes. They all shared the same thought as they looked at the four bodies. That could be me one day. What happens next could happen to me.
“…in taking the fight to our foe, we stamp out disorder and chaos, bringing the order of the just throughout the known lands. Ours is a cause most worthy, and so to fall in the furtherance of that cause is an honor…”
Alwyn caught Yimt’s eye and realized they were both sneering at the Prince’s words. Alwyn coughed and looked over at the Prince, but he continued to talk, his eyes unfocused and staring at nothing.
The ship took a wave off the port bow, sending a shudder through the timbers. The Prince stumbled, then righted himself. He looked questioningly at Major Swift Dragon, who saluted. The Prince returned the salute and without another look back, walked across the deck and into his cabin.
The roll was called for each section that had lost a man. When they got to Harkon, the entire regiment stiffened. Word of his strange death had quickly made the rounds. Soldiers understood dying in battle—they even were beginning to come to terms with the idea of a ghostly afterlife—but to have your shadow burned was something new.
Major Swift Dragon took a moment and panned his eyes along the ranks. When he came to Alwyn he paused, and Alwyn held his gaze. The major looked away and called the last name.
“Harkon.”
Waves battered against the hull with dull booms.
“Private Harkon.”
A clewline snapped and began whipping back and forth against a sail.
“Private Kester Harkon.”
The ship rose on a large wave, then slid down the other side. Spray shot up from the bow and sprinkled down on the assembly, but not a person moved to wipe his face.
Major Swift Dragon pulled his saber from its scabbard and held it skyward. Four soldiers standing at the ready bent and lifted the first body and carried it to the railing.
A mournful, keening sound came from somewhere high in the rigging of the mainmast. Alwyn knew Tyul Mountain Spring, a dïova gruss, an elf lost to the natural order after bonding with an overpowering Silver Wolf Oak, was up there. Miss Red Owl had decided to keep him with her, perhaps as another project, as Yimt put it. Alwyn wasn’t sure there was anything that could be done for the elf. He seemed to live in his own world. When he wasn’t sitting and staring off into space, he was climbing the mainmast that had once been Jurwan’s ryk faur Black Spike to howl whenever there was a burial at sea.
“Sends spiders crawling down the inside of me spine it does,” Teeter whispered to Alwyn.
Alwyn felt something similar, but he thought it had more to do with what was about to happen than with the lost elf’s sorrow.
Major Swift Dragon brought his saber down and the soldiers tipped the body over the side. As they did so the regiment began reciting the oath, a last, bitter sendoff tha
t they had come to cherish the way you trace a finger over an old scar.
We do not fear the flame, though it burns us,
We do not fear the fire, though it consumes us,
And we do not fear its light,
Though it reveals the darkness of our souls,
For therein lies our power.
The first body went over the side. The splash was barely heard over the wind. The regiment braced up. Spikes of frost fire shot into the air. The flames crackled with energy and spread across the water. A shade emerged from the flames and its cries of anguish reverberated inside every man. The deck became shrouded with mist as breath fogged in the suddenly cold air. The next body went over the side and the frost fire grew. It danced along the railing and surrounded the assembled soldiers in a ring of cold, black flame. Another shade appeared, adding its tortured voice to that of its comrade. Images of a dark mountain, twisted trees, and Her came unbidden to Alwyn’s thoughts, and he was not alone. A few soldiers shed tears. Others laughed while a few closed their eyes tightly and prayed.
The third body went in and a third shadow was born. Its wails of terror rose even as those of the first two began to quiet. It was always this way. First the fear and the pain, then the anguish of acceptance, and then a cold, dead calm.
Hands reached out to Alwyn, beckoning him. Alwyn kept his eyes open, but kept his hands at his sides. “Join us.”
The air grew even colder, turning the mist to ice. Men began to shiver and would later tell their mates it was entirely due to the weather. All would accept the lie.
Alwyn stared at the shades and said nothing.
The last body, that of Private Harkon, was tipped over the side. Alwyn took a breath of frigid air into his lungs and waited for the last blast of frost fire, the screams, and the final call of the shades.
