by Chris Evans
“S’not what I mean,” Alwyn said. “There’s no pain where they meet. It’s like the smoke just smoothes out the differences between the magics, you know?” He tried to show Teeter by moving his hands in the air, but his fingers just wiggled and soon he was transfixed by their movement.
“It ain’t regular tobacco, see,” Zwitty said, talking around a smoking tube in his mouth. Smoke curled up from his nostrils to wreathe his head in swirling gray, but what really gave him an eerie quality was the smile on his face. It looked real. “There’s a place in Celwyn where you can get this, but it ain’t cheap. Never knew where it came from. Might just have to see about taking some back when we ship out of here.”
This drew a loud laugh from Hrem and a snort from Yimt. Both raised themselves from the progressively reclined positions they had assumed as the evening went on. Zwitty’s smile disappeared, to be replaced with his more usual sneer.
“You’re a businessman now, are you?” Yimt asked. “Between the souvenirs you’ve been collecting on our island hops and now this, you’ll be able to buy a dukedom in what, another fifty years?”
“I ain’t took nothing that wasn’t rightfully mine,” Zwitty said, reaching out to pull his shako closer. “And what’s wrong with trying to make a bit of a profit? It’s not like we’re gonna be soldiers forever…”
“Found a cure for the oath, have you?” Hrem asked.
“I got one,” Alwyn said, reaching out a hand to pat his musket. Yimt intercepted it with a plate of sliced fruit wedges.
“Here, eat some of these and try not to talk rot,” Yimt said.
Alwyn looked down at the plate. Delicacies he’d only heard of seemed abundant here. There were oranges, lemons, and huge pink wedges called watermelon. Tasting any one of these would have filled him with glee just a few short weeks ago. He grabbed one of each so that Yimt would leave him alone.
“I think Alwyn’s on to something,” Zwitty said, clearly unwilling to let the subject drop. His scare in the alley was clearly still on his mind. “We’ve just accepted this curse and gone along and done everything we’ve been asked to do like good little soldiers for the Prince and the major. But what about us, eh? Who’s working to see that we get out from under this thing? Where’s our reward? Maybe that white fire’s the cure.”
“Zwitty has a…point,” Inkermon said. He was lying flat on his back staring at the smoke swirling around the ceiling. An empty bottle of wine was tucked under his arm, while another almost empty bottle balanced on his stomach. “The more I think about it, the more I wonder if the Creator may have sent it to rid us of this cursed oath.”
“By burning us and our shadows alive? Some bloody help that is,” Yimt said. “We’re better off with the magic we know.” He quickly looked around at them. “Provided we don’t use it.”
“We were better off before,” Alwyn said, his head clearing and visions of the islands flashing in his mind. “And the only way we’ll be better again is when we’re finally done with it, or it’s done with us.”
“Oath or not, we’re fed, we’re watered, and the night’s still young,” Teeter said, slapping his thigh and looking around at them. He reached out a boot and gave Scolly’s sleeping form a nudge, waking him up after the third kick. “And all of us are awake. So, where do they keep their women?”
Teeter had every soldier’s attention. Alwyn tried to laugh, but found his throat was constricted and his lips too dry to form sound. Women. It still didn’t seem possible to him that they were now relaxing in a pub—talking, eating, drinking—when just a few short days ago they had been in pitched battle. And now the idea of women seemed more foreign still.
Yimt motioned for them all to lean in, a gesture completely unnecessary, because every one of them was already crowding in around him. Alwyn elbowed someone to move over and was surprised when Inkermon elbowed him back.
“I spoke with the proprietor of this establishment earlier, and explained that we’ve been for some time deprived of companionship of a more delicate, but not too delicate, nature. After some persuasion,” Yimt said, patting his shatterbow, “he has made certain arrangements to remedy our predicament.”
“Yeah, but what about the women?” Scolly asked.
“He does mean women,” Alwyn said, finding his voice again.
Yimt looked to the ceiling. “Using subtlety on you lot is like a witch not wearing a hat…no point. Yes, women. There are women upstairs, but—” he said quickly as they all made to get up, “there is a catch.”
“Our money’s good here. You said yourself this guy knows which way the wind’s blowing,” Zwitty said.
“I did, and he does, but that’s not the problem. If you all go traipsing up the stairs as a group it’s going to attract attention from this crowd,” Yimt said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, “and menfolk the world over get protective of their women, even the working girls, when outlanders show up.”
“So what did you work out?” Teeter asked.
“You go up one at a time. It keeps things respectable, and we prevent a riot.”
“Who goes first then?” Zwitty asked.
Alwyn suddenly found Yimt staring straight at him. A moment later the rest of the group, even Scolly, were staring at him.
“Maybe…maybe someone else should go first,” Alwyn said, unbuttoning his jacket farther. It had gotten very hot in the pub. “We have all night, right?”
Yimt shook his head. “No one’s been through more since we became Iron Elves than you, Ally, and I know I speak for every soldier here when I say if anyone deserves to go first, it’s you. Right, lads?”
There were nods of agreement and a few muttered “yeahs,” none of them overly enthusiastic, but no one was prepared to disagree with Yimt. At some level, Alwyn thought he did deserve to go first, but at a more fundamental level the idea scared him the way no rakke ever could.
“Well, get on with it then,” Teeter said, forcing a smile. “The sooner you get up there, the sooner the rest of us get a chance.”
This thought galvanized the group and the level of enthusiasm for Alwyn’s looming liaison grew.
“Easy, easy,” Yimt said, standing up and helping Alwyn to his feet. “He’s just going to enjoy a little fun, not storm the gates of the Shadow Monarch’s forest.”
A waiter arrived bearing more wine and another platter full of fruit, which worked to divert the interest of the soldiers long enough for Alwyn to find himself being pushed toward a set of stairs across the room. A man nearly as large as Hrem, wearing a red vest and voluminous blue pantaloons, stood barring the entrance, his two bare arms folded across his chest like mighty oaks. Alwyn turned to Yimt.
“Listen, I appreciate this,” he lied, “but I think someone else should go before me. What about you?” he asked, looking at Yimt.
Yimt smiled up at him. “I’m happily married, remember? And even if I was unhappily married, dwarfettes take marital vows seriously. Did you know they don’t wear a wedding ring? Chafes their finger when swinging an axe, which, as it happens, is the traditional marriage gift a mother gives her daughter.”
“Like a little silver one you mean?” Alwyn said, trying to picture it.
“Full-size and sharp enough to peel eggshells. Makes for one hell of a honeymoon, I can tell you that,” Yimt said, the smile on his face suggesting it was a type of hell not entirely unpleasant.
“Okay, then what about—”
“Ally,” Yimt said, holding up a hand, “there’s always a first time for everything, and this is yours. Enjoy. Just be yourself and she’ll find you the most fascinating man in the world.” He lowered his voice an octave. “She’s paid to.”
Alwyn looked up the stairs past the large man, then back at Yimt. “But look at me. I’m a freak. I have tree limbs for a leg. I can conjure black flame with a thought. I…I talk to dead people, and they talk back to me. I’m not normal, Yimt.”
“Owl droppings,” Yimt said. “So you’re a bit unique—just makes you
that much more interesting. I’m a dwarf, Hrem’s a giant, Scolly’s a dullard, Teeter’s former navy, Inkermon’s holier than thee, thou, and they, and Zwitty is, well, Zwitty. Compared to us, you’re about as normal as we got.”
Alwyn wiped the sweat from his brow and took a couple of deep breaths, accidentally fogging his spectacles. “It’s just that, I haven’t exactly, you know…”
Yimt reached out a hand and placed it on his arm. “That, Ally, is the worst-kept secret in the regiment. Time to put an end to it.”
Alwyn nodded and turned toward the stairs, but Yimt’s hand drew him back.
“I don’t think you’ll be needing this where you’re going,” he said, gently lifting Alwyn’s musket out of his hand. “Now go.” Alwyn found himself spun around and facing the large man, who nodded at Yimt, then stepped out of the way. Alwyn looked up the stairs, then back at Yimt.
“They look a bit steep, and with my leg—”
“Which is no longer hurting you, remember?” Yimt said, giving him a firm push.
Alwyn stumbled up the first step then paused, said a silent prayer, and walked up.
SIXTEEN
The two men stalking the alleys of Nazalla were seasoned hunters. They’d taken down sailors, soldiers, and once even an unwary wizard. They’d never hunted an elf before, but this was their turf. There wasn’t a tree in sight.
They would never be that wrong again.
Elves are very good hunters in the dark. Those bonded with the power of the Wolf Oaks are even better.
And then there are those like Tyul Mountain Spring, touched by the power of a Silver Wolf Oak.
The only sounds heard were that of two cracks as necks broke from the force of a single strike from bare hands. The two knives were caught in midair, one by a leaf-tattooed hand, the other in the mouth of a squirrel. The feel of the metal drew anguished sobs from both Tyul and Jurwan, and the knives were quickly reunited with their owners. Tyul studied the ground for several seconds, then reached out a hand as Jurwan scampered up it to perch on the elf’s shoulder. With three steps, they vanished into the night.
In the morning, the bodies would be found stripped of their clothing. It would take the efforts of three men to pull the blades out of the eye sockets.
Konowa took a sip from his glass and immediately spat it back. “Tastes like horse p—” he started to say, then caught himself. Several guests in attendance at the Viceroy’s palace looked his way. The din of conversation in the outdoor courtyard quieted.
“Lovely party,” he muttered, raising his glass and gulping down the offending liquid to prove his point. Of course, the Viceroy would put on airs for the arrival of the Prince, and naturally the Prince would insist Konowa attend. The bastard really does hate me.
Konowa spotted a group of wives—at least he assumed they were wives—heading his way. They appeared just a sip away from asking him about his adventures. Rallie! The scribe and her damn dispatches were proving more troublesome than a roomful of drunken orcs. If Konowa had to answer one more question about his “poor” ear tip or comment on how “lonely” it must be out there, he was prepared to light the whole damn place on fire and to hell with the consequences.
The women edged closer, fans flapping and eyelashes fluttering. Already tonight, a woman had reached out to shake his hand and deposited a metal door key in his palm. She blushed and said she had only wanted to see if an elf really could hold metal, and then suggested he could return the key later…personally. Konowa wasn’t interested.
The one woman who did interest him was, as usual, in seemingly endless discussion with Rallie and his mother. It was as if the three had become best friends. Perhaps it was for the best. As long as he was bound by the oath, Konowa saw no way he and Visyna could be together, assuming she even wanted that.
Konowa glanced at the group of women and quickly plotted his getaway. If he didn’t act now it would soon be too late. Once they surrounded him, there would be no easy way to extract himself from the lace, the fawning, the laughter at everything he said, and double entendres that would make Sergeant Arkhorn blush. Konowa stood up straight and offered them a smile by way of baring his teeth. Immediately, their interest in him plummeted, and they quickly veered off, looking for easier prey. As they did, Konowa saw an opening through the crowd leading to an archway and blissful freedom.
He set his glass down on a nearby table and set out. A servant saw him and began angling toward him with a tray filled with yet more drinks. Was there no end to this? Konowa dodged an incoming officer from the 3rd Spears and picked up his pace. Everywhere he looked, gaggles of local officials and dignitaries, ships’ captains, and Calahrian officers engaged in animated conversation drifted about the courtyard like ships cut adrift of their mooring lines. Konowa heard his name called but kept walking. He caught snippets of conversation as he passed. Talk of the fleet in the harbor, the return of the Red Star, and what it all meant filled the air and filled Konowa with loathing.
A cluster of archeologists, botanists, astronomers, and other learned types, attached to the fleet at the personal request of the Prince in his search for “antiquities of special interest,” hove into view directly in Konowa’s path. Konowa brushed past them without a glance, furious that the Prince still saw this as some kind of adventure expedition.
Movement off to the left indicated the servant was closing in. Konowa lengthened his stride. The noise of dozens of conversations washed over him as he passed, serving to infuriate him even more. Didn’t they realize that every moment spent drinking and eating and talking was a wasted one? All their efforts should be directed toward finding the original Iron Elves. He should have set out for Suhundam’s Hill the moment they landed…by himself, if necessary.
The archway was only yards away now, and Konowa genuinely smiled for the first time the whole evening. He would get out among the troops camped on the palace grounds. That was where he belonged, not here.
Looking through the arch, he spotted a campfire with a group of soldiers standing around it. No matter what the temperature, soldiers clustered around fires the way moths did. Konowa could already smell the harsh tobacco they smoked and the pot of arr boiling on the fire. Now that was home. That was where an elf could be an elf. He felt his shoulders relax and allowed himself a half-turn to look back at the party as he left it.
He didn’t see the servant arrive one step ahead of him.
The tinkling of broken glass took several seconds to dissipate, by which time the courtyard had gone completely silent. Konowa hung his head. So close. So bloody close.
The servant was back on his feet in an instant. “My deepest apologies, Major. Three ladies suggested you were in dire need of a drink. They were quite insistent. They impressed upon me the matter was urgent.” He leaned in a little closer, his voice shaky. “Not for me to say, but they have an air about them that suggests, well, you know…”
Konowa sighed. “Believe me, witches isn’t a strong enough word.” He shook his head and looked down at his uniform. “Well, I’d say you completed your mission, as I most definitely have more than enough drinks to keep me busy for some time to come. Do me a favor, though, and keep open flames away until I dry.”
The background noise of the party quickly swelled to its former level. The campfire still beckoned just beyond the archway, but Konowa knew it was destined to be beyond his reach even before a voice called to him.
“You almost made good your escape, Major,” a man said somewhere behind Konowa, “but your strategy was flawed.”
Konowa turned and had to shield his eyes as a small cart was wheeled past with yet more crystal stemwear. The light from the many lanterns hung in the courtyard reflected off the glasses, temporarily wreathing the smiling face of the Suljak of Hasshugeb. The effect created a dozen flickering shadows behind him for just a moment.
The Suljak was a wisp of a man, his robe pulled close around him despite the warmth of the night air. While his gaunt cheeks and thin gray hair suggest
ed his desert home was a harsh one, his brown eyes twinkled with an intelligence that indicated it had honed his mind to a very sharp instrument.
“Your Grace,” Konowa said, bowing slightly and reluctantly turning his back on the archway. “What strategy is that?”
The Suljak came closer and placed a hand on Konowa’s arm, patting it gently as if comforting a small child. “Call me Faydarr, please. I find being called by one’s title all the time rather taxing. After a while, one starts to wonder who one really is…don’t you find, Major?”
Konowa traced the hand guard on his saber with a finger. He was determined to avoid any more philosophical discussions if he could help it. “I wouldn’t know; I’m a military elf. Without the hierarchy of a rank structure, we’d be little more than rabble with muskets.”
The Suljak squeezed Konowa’s arm. “Few sleepless nights for you then, eh, Major, wondering about where your thread weaves into the grand tapestry of life?”
“None,” Konowa lied. Dreams haunted by the Shadow Monarch were no one’s business but his own. He realized his answer sounded abrupt, and made an effort to engage in small talk, at least for a minute until he could make an excuse and leave. “I sleep just fine, but then I’m probably not smart enough to know I should be worried. You mentioned something about my strategy?”
The Suljak wagged a bony finger and winked. “A diversion, of course. You really should have an adjutant for these sorts of events, a loyal fellow ready to overturn a tureen of soup, or perhaps let a rat loose in a punch bowl.”
The face of Regimental Sergeant Major Lorian flashed in Konowa’s mind. Their initial meeting had not been the most cordial—Lorian had tried to hack Konowa’s head off with a saber—but they had come to an understanding of sorts. Konowa missed him.
“The Iron Elves are not exactly at full strength at the moment,” Konowa said. “I pretty much have to fend for myself at these things.”
