by Chris Evans
“What does?”
Yimt spat out a wad of crute, which sizzled and boiled on the sun-baked cobblestones. He immediately shoved a fresh batch between gum and cheek and continued. “Telling us brave and fearless siggers that history is looking down at us, as if we’ve done something wrong.”
“I don’t think that’s what he meant,” Alwyn said.
Yimt continued as if he hadn’t heard. “All that untold history that came before us should by rights be looking up at us with admiration and awe. You see,” he said, lowering his voice theatrically, “we’re at what you call the full crumb of history.”
Scolly turned his head. “What, you mean like bread?”
Alwyn started to shake his head, but Yimt nodded.
“Aye, Scolly, you’re right. This heat must be good for your noggin.” Yimt looked around at the soldiers near him. “The trick is, lads, to think of history as one big loaf. Slices are what you call centuries. But each slice is made up by a lot of crumbs, and in every slice there is what the peelitical types call a full crumb.” A few soldiers smiled at this and Yimt wagged a finger at them. “Makes perfect sense, it does. Who among you didn’t grow up savoring the smell of fresh-baked bread? Ideas is a lot like that, so it stands to reason a deep thinker would use it to explain things, knowing it’s something fellows at the shallow end of the reflectin’ pool like you lot could understand. See, there’s this special crumb that holds the slice, or century, together. That’s the full crumb, and that’s where we’re at right now.”
Alwyn glanced toward the Prince. He’d finished reading the proclamation and was now droning on about the Empire and power and opportunities, but the soldiers around Yimt were hanging on the dwarf’s every word. It made Alwyn wonder what would happen if a person could rise to power based not on his bloodline, but on his ability to captivate an audience. Then again, Yimt’s nickname, “The Little Mad One,” was well earned, so perhaps it was for the best he was only a sergeant.
“In fact,” Yimt said, standing up a little straighter, “you could say we Iron Elves are that full crumb. We’re the bit that every other bit of the slice that makes up this rigmarole with the Shadow Monarch and falling Stars and the rest of it hinge on.”
Hrem leaned forward and asked the obvious question. “So, if we’re this full crumb, and everything is one big slice of bread, how do we break this oath? I don’t want to be a shadow for eternity doing the bidding of that elf witch and Her twisted trees. And I want Her out of my dreams.”
Every head nodded at this.
“That pales in comparison to the larger issue,” Inkermon said. “As vile a temptress as She is, the oath must be broken or our souls will never be free to depart to the great reward beyond. We’ll be trapped.”
The Prince’s voice could be heard clearly in the background, but no one was paying attention now.
“So what do we do?” Alwyn asked. “How do we break the oath and free ourselves from the Shadow Monarch?”
Yimt spat another wad of crute and looked around him. He held up a hand and for the briefest moment black flames danced across his upturned palm.
“My poor, sweet, thick-as-two-fat-arsed-orcs-pressed-together. I thought it would be perfectly obvious to you by now, especially in this heat.” He looked around at them with a wicked twinkle in his eye. “We make toast.”
TWELVE
A regiment smells.
It’s supposed to. It marches through mud and flame, washed as much by blood and filth as it is by rain. It churns the earth and rends the air as it grinds itself to a keen edge, growing thinner as it grows sharper.
It smells of sweat and urine and beer. It wears with honor the musk of old leather and the pungent sting of boot polish and the must of brick dust. The rotten-egg stink of black powder mixes with the cool tang of steel. Waves of odors steam from it in the heat, creating a distinctive blend of hewn wood, fresh manure, and maggoty bread, all filtered through the constant haze of harsh tobacco smoke.
At times, it also smells of fear, and courage—the two so inextricably entwined they are as one.
Above all, a regiment smells of life: foul, heady, and intense. The Iron Elves, however, smelled of one more thing; the oath. It permeated everything, and though no one could describe it, it was distinct and unmistakable.
Alwyn had come to think of it as a pool of spreading blood; dark, thick, and permanent. It was a subject few of the soldiers wanted to talk about, and even when he spoke with Miss Red Owl and Miss Tekoy and even Rallie, he couldn’t really explain it, and they could never fully understand.
Think staining wood, he told himself, trying to blot the image of blood from his mind. Wood could be sanded, varnished even, and painted over. Wood was malleable, natural, and retained elements of its spirit even after its death, or at least that’s what Miss Red Owl and Miss Tekoy told him.
Alwyn shifted his weight from his good leg to his wooden leg and then back again as they waited for the order to march. The Prince was still talking, but Alwyn made no effort to hear what he was saying. The sun pressed its heat down on Alwyn like a thick, flat paving stone. His head was dizzy and it felt like an oven inside his shako. He ran an already sweat-stained cuff across his forehead and tried to focus on something else.
The pack on his back was digging into the fleshy bit right above his waist. He adjusted the straps and shrugged a couple of times, but failed to find a more comfortable position. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. Soldiers carried their lives on their backs like two-legged pack mules, though Alwyn thought mules were probably treated better. He tried to think of what he could throw away the first chance he got. The obvious choice was the greatcoat and blanket wrapped into a roll and strapped to the top of his pack. The bundle forced his head forward at an uncomfortable angle, and in this kind of heat he couldn’t see why he’d need either of them.
“Sergeant,” he said as Yimt walked past checking the rows. Yimt turned and walked over, making a show of looking Alwyn up and down. “Any chance we could lose the coat and blanket?”
“Yeah, how ’bout it, Sarge?” Zwitty added, already reaching up and undoing the straps to take his off.
Yimt grabbed the hem of his caerna and began flapping it to create a breeze. “I’d be the first to admit that this heat is frying my giblets, but it won’t always be this hot. You keep that gear stowed.” A few soldiers began flapping their caernas, though not with quite the dwarf’s vigor.
Zwitty clicked his tongue. “Those sergeant’s stripes are going to your head.”
“My fist will be going upside yours if you give me any more lip, Private,” Yimt said, a cheery smile on his face that suggested there would be nothing he’d like more. “Bloody babes in the woods the lot of you. Mark my words, any soldier who somehow manages to lose his coat or bedroll will be begging to buy one for twenty gold coins. This ain’t like Elfkyna. This heat is quick. It fires up fast and cools off even faster.”
Grumbling greeted this assessment, but they’d all learned by now that if Yimt said something was worth holding on to, you guarded it with your life. The dwarf leaned in toward Alwyn and motioned for him to bend over so they couldn’t be overheard. “An enterprising young lad might just try to pick up an extra blanket if he can. You never know what the nights will bring…”
Alwyn pondered that as Yimt walked away, but the heat quickly pushed it out of his mind. Surely there was something he could get rid of.
On leaving the ship for the last time, a fact that had raised morale among the regiment despite the daunting prospect of fighting in an unknown desert land, they’d all been issued with four days’ worth of salted beef and ship’s biscuits. When Alwyn compared that with the even more daunting prospect of Yimt’s cooking, he decided the food was worth holding on to. He’d never part with his housewife with its essential needles and thread, a gift from Mr. Yuimi, the little elf tailor, when Alwyn had joined up. The extra shirt, stockings, polishing kit, and coin purse were equally crucial and not to be left behind.
Alwyn looked down his front and patted the canteen filled with water and the gourd filled with rok har, the tree sap elixir the elves of the Long Watch drank for energy on long journeys. He wouldn’t be giving those up, or the pouch carrying sixty-five rounds of musket balls and powder charges or his musket or bayonet.
He sighed and shrugged his shoulders again. Pain and suffering seemed to be the constant state of being of a soldier in the Iron Elves. He tried to remember a time when that wasn’t the case, but such memories proved elusive.
Alwyn shifted his weight again and winced.
“Looks like you’re due for a watering,” Hrem said, pointing down toward Alwyn’s wooden leg.
The twisted branches that made up the false leg did indeed look dry. Alwyn unslung his musket from his shoulder and handed it to Hrem, then grabbed the wooden gourd given to him by Miss Red Owl. He poured out a small amount of the rok har into his hand then bent over to rub it into the wood. It was a challenge to keep his balance, but Hrem helpfully moved closer to allow Alwyn to lean against him.
“Why don’t you just take it off to do that?” Scolly asked, forever fascinated and slightly afraid of the appendage.
“It doesn’t like to go back on,” Alwyn said. The magic imbued in the crafted leg made for him by Miss Red Owl and Miss Tekoy was a true marvel, the woven branches flexing where the ankle and the knee would be. He had tried wearing a boot over the roots that acted as his foot, but found he had more stability without the boot and left it off except for ceremonial occasions like this one.
Alwyn lifted the hem of his caerna to show Scolly where the branches thinned and became green vines, which wrapped around the stump of his leg. Parts of the vines were blackened while the flesh of his leg was bright red and raw in a couple of places. For the moment, no frost fire sparkled along the areas where vine and skin touched.
“The magic of the oath doesn’t seem to like the magic in the wood too much,” Alwyn said, rubbing the area around the stump gently before lowering his caerna.
“You’re a fool, you know that?” Zwitty said, staring at the leg. “Losing that leg was your ticket out of this nightmare. Why didn’t you get yourself shipped back to Calahr when you had the chance, or at least stay back in Elfkyna?”
“There is no out,” Teeter said. “We’re all in this to the end, and maybe even beyond the end. I don’t care what Sergeant Arkhorn said, I don’t see how we survive this.”
A sharp, disapproving snort indicated Inkermon’s thoughts on the subject. “We must find a way. We just need faith.”
“Or something else,” Alwyn said. “We all saw what happened to Kester.”
“Yeah, he burned alive with his shadow and now he’s dead,” Zwitty said.
“But he didn’t join the others, at least, not yet,” Alwyn said.
Zwitty’s eyes widened. “Not yet? He’s still dead, and he screamed as if the flames burning his shadow were burning him from the inside. Hrem felt it. You felt it. Are you telling us that’s a pleasant way to go? And go where? There might just be worse things than serving in the afterlife, you know.”
“I can’t imagine them,” Alwyn said. Images of ghostly hands reaching out to him remained a constant companion during his waking hours.
“Aye, I felt it,” Hrem said, “and it was like being pulled apart a little bit at a time, all while burning.” His voice was so soft that all the soldiers shuddered to hear him say it.
Alwyn had felt that, too, but he didn’t share their reaction. “But what if we could learn to control it? What if we could use it to burn away the oath and then stop?”
“And what if you couldn’t stop it and your shadow keeps burning until you’re dead? Then what?” Zwitty asked for all of them.
Alwyn never got the chance to reply as bellowing broke out along the formation of troops. It was time to march.
“Right, lads, look sharp!” Yimt shouted as he strode up to them. “This is the citizenry of Nazalla’s first time getting a peek at you and you’d better look aces. You’re Iron Elves now and that means something to folks. We’re the ones that took on the Shadow Monarch and Her beasties at Luuguth Jor and handed them their keesters in a basket.”
A roar went up from the Iron Elves. Backs straightened and eyes brightened.
“We’re the bloody bastards what took island after island and cleared ’em safe.”
The roar was louder now. The heat suddenly didn’t seem so oppressive.
“Sure, you’re probably doomed for all eternity to a life of misery and woe, but oh, what woe you’ll sow!”
Creases were brushed flat, spit smoothed down stray hairs, and shakos were adjusted to the perfect jaunty angle. The snap of cloth drew nods of approval as the Colors, the pair of flags that served as every regiment’s badge of honor, were unfurled in the blazing sun. The Queen’s Colors rose first, the royal cipher surrounded by a leafy garland on a background of silver-green offering a stark contrast to their dusty white surroundings.
The tops of boots were given a final buff on the backs of stockinged legs as the Regimental Colors were hoisted. A murmur of grudging acceptance greeted the black flag. Battle honors for Luuguth Jor and the island chain now adorned the mountain outlined in silver along with the Elvish script Æri Mekah; Into the Fire. What other regiment took that into battle?
“I’d wager my weight in gold every creepy-crawly-nasty-ugly the world over is hunting for you,” Yimt said, thumping his chest with vigor. “They probably think, seeing as you ain’t really elves, your poor excuse for a hide would make a nice throw rug in their cave!”
Caernas were twirled, then hitched up or down so that the hem rode right at the kneecap. Muskets were pressed just that much tighter against shoulders and jaws jutted out until they ached.
“But if anyone ever tells you lads you don’t got pointy ears, by the deuce boyos, you look ’em in the eye and tell ’em you got iron balls!”
Birds startled into the air and camels bucked as the Iron Elves roared their approval. They might be doomed, damned, and buggered for all eternity, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t sparkle like a diamond in the sun and grin like a skull in moonlight on their way to oblivion.
A regiment smells. It’s supposed to. Among all the things the Iron Elves smelled of, something new asserted itself; pride.
THIRTEEN
Visyna batted away some flies and watched the crowd lining the street as the parade marched past. Some waved, and a few brave children ran out to beg for food and tobacco, but most of the citizens of Nazalla simply stood and stared. She tried to put a word to it. The crowd was…careful. The people lined the streets because they were expected to. Whatever resentment they harbored they kept in check, at least while the sun was in the sky. At night, Visyna could imagine the city becoming something very different, and very ugly.
It reminded her of Elfkyna. She remembered all too well the feelings of helplessness and rage at watching the soldiers of the Empire marching across her land. And she remembered with crystalline clarity how it felt to stand up to that force and fight, in her own way, to help her people. Elfkyna wasn’t free yet, but it had its guiding Star again, and the people saw that as a sign of good things to come. Visyna desperately hoped their faith would be rewarded.
Perhaps the return of a Star here would do the same for these people. They must want to be free just as all people do.
She shifted in her seat beside Rallie on the wagon and looked back to where the other regiments followed behind in the column.
“Not quite the same reaction, is it?” Rallie said, puffing on a cigar.
It wasn’t. Once the Iron Elves had passed it was as if a cloud lifted. The once-subdued crowd became more boisterous. The mood of the people lightened. It wasn’t outright joy, but the fear that they’d felt as the Iron Elves neared was reason enough to celebrate when the regiment had passed.
“The oath is a burden the soldiers should never have had to bear. The darkness of it permeates everything arou
nd them.” Flies buzzed around her face, landing in the corner of her eyes and even trying to crawl up her nose.
“It is most unfortunate, no doubt about it,” Rallie said. “Still, they are handling it well, for the most part.”
More people were coming out of doorways of the whitewashed buildings to line the street. Shuttered windows opened and roofs teemed with the curious. A few greetings rang out, and from a couple of roofs dates and olives rained down on the soldiers. Children, fascinated by the colorful and noisy procession, scampered among the soldiers with unrestrained glee. Those who came close to Rallie’s wagon, however, quickly retreated when they heard the noises coming from inside. Visyna wasn’t sure who was more agitated by the situation, the sreex or Jir. Dandy, the massive silver-beaked falcon, was currently perched on the crow’s nest of the Black Spike—until needed, as Rallie put it.
“How long will this last before they turn on them and a full-scale revolt breaks out?” Visyna asked. “I felt their fear as the Iron Elves marched by. That fear is going to turn to anger. I saw it happen in Elfkyna.”
“Possibly,” Rallie said, “although the Viceroy in Nazalla has a decidedly lighter hand than the last two Viceroys you knew in your homeland. In the end, it probably won’t matter. Between the pent-up resentment and the prospect of change, there would have been a new order here before much longer whether the Iron Elves had arrived or not. Their Star is returning,” she said, pointing at the crowd, “and soon. That is what will tip the balance.”
“And make for some very good reading in the Imperial Weekly Herald,” Visyna said. She meant it as a joke, but it was hard not to notice that the more “interesting” things became, the more Rallie was interested in being there.
“I suppose I am quite like the vulture, when you put it that way,” Rallie said.
“I wasn’t trying to insult you,” Visyna said, hoping she hadn’t offended the older woman.
