by Chris Evans
They’d be lucky to survive.
“And this is now!” Konowa shouted. “Order your warriors to fall back. You can worry about your precious plans later.”
The Suljak looked up, his eyes glazed over. “The Star, the Star is all that matters.”
“Do as the major says, Suljak! Get your men away from here and the Star will be saved,” the Prince shouted. His fist was clenched again for another punch. Konowa did not reach out to hold his arm.
“I…I will order my men back,” the Suljak said. “We will regroup in the desert.”
“Go to hell,” Konowa said.
The Suljak climbed back onto his camel, snapped the reins, and began to trot toward the battle. Several tribal leaders rode out to meet him. The conference was quick. The leaders galloped their camels back to their men and began shouting orders.
“Major, we have our opening,” the Prince said. “Let’s go get that Star.”
The bengar lay crouched on the tunnel floor. There was a long gash on his right shoulder where the musket ball had torn across his fur and skin. Visyna put away her dagger and moved closer. Jir’s ears were pressed back on his head and his jaw was open in a snarl. Visyna reached out a hand toward the bengar, but Jir uttered a low, rumbling growl from deep within his chest.
“Easy, Miss Tekoy,” Hrem said, now standing beside her. She hadn’t heard him approach, but her ears were still ringing from the musket shot. “He might be the major’s pet and our mascot, but Jir’s still a wild animal.”
“Is he okay?” Zwitty shouted from way back in the tunnel. Visyna turned and saw he was frantically reloading his musket.
“It’s just a scratch, but you could have killed him.”
“I saw the skeleton so I took the shot,” Zwitty said. He finished reloading and walked slowly toward them. Teeter and Hrem both glared at him.
Jir’s growl grew louder when he spied Zwitty. Visyna turned back to the bengar and tried to calm him. “It’s all right, Jir, it was only an accident. Zwitty’s sorry, aren’t you?”
“Trying to save our lives is what I was doing,” Zwitty muttered. “How was I supposed to know he’d be coming back with half a skeleton?”
“Tell Jir you’re sorry,” Hrem said, pointing at Zwitty.
“What, why? He’s just a stupid animal.”
Jir showed more teeth and the fur on his back rippled as his muscles tensed.
“You want to be his dinner?” Teeter asked. “Just apologize already.”
“Okay, okay,” Zwitty said. He held his musket across his body as he looked at Jir. “I’m sorry I tried to save us all by shooting at the skeleton and you got in the way.”
Hrem shook his head. “Were you ever human?”
Zwitty looked as if he wanted to shout something, but he just turned and walked a few paces away, muttering under his breath. Jir relaxed and his ears slowly came up as his fur went down. Visyna reached out a hand and this time he didn’t growl. She gently rubbed his head then smoothed his fur down to the wound. Blood matted the fur, but it would heal on its own. She would have woven some magic to help it heal, but not here.
“Anything in this tunnel heard that shot,” Hrem said. “We’d best keep moving. Tyul might be just ahead.”
“At least there’s one less skeleton to worry about,” Teeter said, trying to sound jovial.
Visyna hoped he was right. She followed Hrem as he led off. Jir stayed beside her. The bengar licked at his shoulder a few times and favored his right front paw, but for having been inches from death he was in remarkably good shape.
Hrem stopped and held up his hand. Jir tilted his head to one side as if listening. Visyna shook her head and strained to hear what had gotten their attention.
“I can’t hear anything, but I smell fresh air, as if a door just opened,” Visyna said. She smelled something else, something familiar. Pipe clay. Gunpowder. There were more soldiers in the tunnel!
“Hrem, there are so—” she started to say, but the rest of the sentence caught in her throat. Soldiers lined the tunnel ahead of them. They were still cast in shadow so that Visyna could not make out their faces, but their outline was unmistakable.
One of the soldiers stepped forward until he was visible in the dim glow. He held a musket in his hands and had it leveled at his hip ready to fire. Visyna’s eyes widened. “You!”
Private Takoli Kritton smiled. He was still dressed in the uniform of an Iron Elf. A large, black blade with a distinctive kink in it hung from a leather thong on his cartridge belt. Visyna recognized it as Sergeant Arkhorn’s drukar.
“Imagine finding you all here,” Kritton said, his voice smooth and calculating. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with me. The way ahead is blocked.”
“Tyul is up there, Kritton,” Hrem said, looking past the elf at the soldiers behind him. He was squinting, trying to make them out. “Some skeleton demons have the body of one our men. They’re trying to take his soul! We have to go after him.”
Kritton went pale. “Be thankful they only have the one. The creatures you speak of are the long-dead remains of Kaman Rhal’s army. They started gathering up the dead again shortly after the first Star reappeared in Luuguth Jor, but that is none of our concern.”
“How can you say that?” asked Visyna.
“Because for too long the Empire dictated what was right and wrong, but no longer.” Kritton leered at her. “Don’t look so surprised, isn’t that what you’re always saying? Just like Elfkyna, there’s a power growing in this desert, and it is welcome to this wasteland.”
“You sound well informed for someone who’s been on the run,” Visyna said, glaring at the elf.
“I’ve had my eyes opened to a lot of things,” Kritton said. “Knowledge is a powerful tool, especially if you know how to use it.”
“What are you talking about?” Visyna asked. “You ran away in Elfkyna when these men stayed and fought. And now you stand here as if nothing has happened.”
Anger flashed in Kritton’s eyes, but he kept his voice calm. “Much has happened. Come with me and I’ll show you.”
“You’re in no position to be giving orders anymore,” Hrem said, taking a step forward. “You’re a deserter, or have you forgotten the forest in Elfkyna when you saved your own miserable skin and left the rest of us to die?”
“We’re all dead anyway if something isn’t done,” Kritton said, his lips white with anger. “I ran because I saw a chance to get away and make a difference. I wasn’t trying to save my life, I was trying to save all of us from this abomination,” he said, taking a hand off his musket and grabbing at his uniform above his heart.
“You had the right idea,” Zwitty said, inching forward. “See, I told the lot of you desertin’ was the smart move.”
If Zwitty had expected a sign of approval from Kritton he didn’t get it. “I did not desert!” Kritton shouted. “We are here to set things right. We will no longer follow the orders of those who deceive and dishonor us!”
Visyna stepped forward before anyone else could speak. “Who is ‘we’?”
Kritton looked over his shoulder and whispered something. The soldiers behind him came forward, their muskets pointing at Visyna and Hrem. Visyna gasped. Every soldier had a shorn left ear tip while the right still had its point.
“We,” Kritton said, a look of fierce pride on his face, “are the true Iron Elves.”
No one said a word. A tear came to Visyna’s eye. These were Konowa’s men, his brothers. She looked at them all, seeking to understand who they now were. All still wore the uniform of the Calahrian Imperial Army. The cloth was tattered and worn, but their muskets gleamed with care. Each stood at least six feet tall, their frames thinner than Konowa’s, not as broad across the shoulders. Gaunt faces looked back at her. None sneered, none smiled. She looked into their eyes and understood why.
These elves were in pain. Enormous pain. She sensed it without needing to weave the air. They had been abandoned and dishonored, and n
one of it had been their fault.
“Listen to me, all of you. Whatever Kritton has told you is a lie. Konowa did not desert you. The reason we are here now is you! He has come back for you. We’ve all come here for you,” she said, pointing around her at the other soldiers. “Even now your regiment goes to battle. Go to Konowa and help him. He needs you.”
Kritton’s laugh echoed off the tunnel walls. “He needs us? What about when we needed him? Where was he then? No, Miss Tekoy, we will not be fooled again. Our honor will be restored, but it will not be by him.”
Visyna cast her gaze across the elves in front of her, searching for a sign that some of them, or even one, would listen to her. Each elf met her gaze, their eyes revealing what they would not say. She refused to give up.
“You know this is wrong! I can see it. This isn’t who you are. No one can take away your honor. Being banished here was terrible, I understand that, but only you hold your fate in your hands. Only you—”
“Enough!” Kritton roared. “You will not lecture us again. We have already regained our honor, and you’re going to see how. Now move,” he ordered, motioning her toward the tunnel entrance.
Visyna started to make one more plea, but Hrem reached out a hand and touched her arm.
“Forget it, Miss Tekoy. They aren’t the elves we thought they were.”
Visyna could only nod. As she stepped into the side tunnel the only consolation she could muster was that she was glad Konowa wasn’t here to witness what his elves had become.
THIRTY
Konowa turned and looked at the regiment. Already they had edged out onto the sand. Death stood just a short distance away yet still the sergeants had to restrain the men from lunging forward. They knew battle was upon them, and they were ready. Frost fire limned them as darkness grew.
It was time.
Konowa and the Prince trotted their camels back to the oasis and brought them to a halt in front of the column. Konowa looked to the Prince, who nodded. Konowa cleared his throat. “Iron Elves…shoulder arms!” As one, they picked up their muskets in their right hands and threw them across their chests. Frost fire arced from bayonet to bayonet as they moved through the air. Each soldier caught it with his left, cradling the butt of the musket in his palm and pressing the musket against his left shoulder.
“Color Party will keep the Colors low until we are through the gap.” Konowa knew that without the order the Color Party would hoist the flags high, their pride overcoming their instinct for survival. They would all be targets soon enough, but Konowa didn’t want to lose the Color Party through sheer foolhardy bravery.
“The regiment will march in column…by the center…march!” A drummer with the 3rd Spears immediately set up a rhythm to keep everyone in time. Konowa steered his camel toward the young boy. “When you see me raise my saber, then drop it, I want you to pick it up to double time.”
The drummer nodded and kept up his pace. Konowa trotted his camel back to the front of the column and then out past it to where the Prince and Viceroy Alstonfar waited. “I suggest you both get to the middle of the column. It’ll be safest there.”
The Prince looked toward the battle, then at Konowa. “You’re right, but I won’t. These are my men, and the only way to lead is from the front.”
“Your Highness, Major Swift Dragon is right,” the Viceroy said. “You are the future King of the Calahrian Empire. You must be protected.”
Prince Tykkin smiled and slapped the side of his camel with his scabbard. The animal brayed and went down to its knees and the Prince dismounted. Konowa and the Viceroy followed suit. “I shall lead them on foot,” the Prince said, adjusting his tunic and reaching up to push his shako a little tighter onto his head.
Konowa knew he should object, but a part of him admired the Prince for this. It was foolish, needlessly reckless, and the men would see it and their chests would swell and their eyes would glint and woe be to the enemy that stood astride their path.
“Go, Pimmer,” the Prince said, reaching out and placing a hand on the Viceroy’s shoulder. “Get yourself back there and try not to be too big a target.”
The Viceroy licked his lips nervously and then shook his head. “Respectfully, no. I am the Viceroy of this territory, and whatever else people might think of me, it will not be said that this day I added coward to the list. My place is here, and if you don’t like it, I suggest you take it up with the Queen next time you see her.”
The Prince stood with an ever-widening grin on his face, looking at the Viceroy before turning to Konowa. “I do believe, Major, that I have just been told to go stuff myself.”
Konowa smiled. “Actually, sir, I think it’s a bit more accurate to say Pimmer has instructed you to get stuffed, but close enough.”
The sound of marching boots heralded the front of the column. “Well then, gentlemen, we shall lead this regiment into the gap and let nothing stand in our way. To the Star!”
Konowa and the Viceroy drew their sabers, and all three raised them in the air. “To the Star!” Boots crunched over sand and rock with an inexorable beat. The entire regiment took on a slight lean as it anticipated the fall of the saber. Konowa let his saber fall.
The drumbeat sped up and the regiment shouted. The men began to march faster, keeping time with the drum. The cannons wheeled to the fore, the mule drivers cracking their whips to keep the animals in check.
Ahead of them, the battle raged. To the left, the warriors of the Hasshugeb were slowly falling back. They had formed a ragged line several hundred yards wide, firing their muskets in sporadic volleys at the rampaging drakarri spitting their deadly fire. Several of the creatures rushed forward, breaking the line and wreaking absolute havoc among the panicked Hasshugeb. White flames spiked twenty feet into the air as warriors were consumed in the supernatural furnace.
The sound of the Suljak’s voice cut through the din and the fire died down. More musket fire ripped the night air and several drakarri fell. It was just enough of a respite to allow the Hasshugeb to reform their line and continue in as orderly a retreat as they could manage.
Over on the right flank it was a different story. The sarka har slashed and shrieked as they pushed forward against the white fire. The trees were actually tearing themselves apart in an effort to kill the drakarri by whipping their branches around with such force that the limbs broke free and sailed through the air like spears.
Konowa had hoped Her forest would be contained by Kaman Rhal’s creatures, but the blood trees were still gaining ground. A shadowy figure at the edge of Her forest wielded a lance of pure frost fire that none of the fire creatures could withstand. Wherever it moved, frost fire overwhelmed the drakarri and left them gutted husks.
“Her Emissary,” Konowa spat.
The Prince and the Viceroy said nothing. It occurred to Konowa then just how remarkable it was that both men were marching beside him. Neither the Prince nor the Viceroy were bound by the Blood Oath of the Iron Elves. They did not have the power of the frost fire burning within them, yet they did not flinch as the Iron Elves marched closer to the fray.
They approached to within five hundred yards of the canyon opening. The Prince raised his saber again and waved it back and forth, then brought it down. The regiment halted. The drummer ceased his drumming as boots thudded to a halt in the sand. The sounds of battle washed over the regiment as it stood, waiting.
The Prince and the Viceroy walked back toward the column while Konowa strode several paces away on its right flank. He then turned and faced the regiment. “Colors to the center, 3rd Spears to the right and left flanks…the regiment will form two rows in line…now!” Despite the horror taking place in front of the column, it spread out with smooth precision, each soldier taking measured steps as he found his place. In moments, the Iron Elves stretched out across the sand in two neat rows facing the canyon.
“Nine-pounder cannons to the right flank, six-pounder to the left…deploy!” Whips cracked and wheels creaked as the gun crew
s brought their guns up to the line. The cannons were quickly unhitched and the mule teams taken back behind the line while the gun crews rushed to get their guns set for firing. Cannonballs and powder charges were unloaded from limbers as the gun commander of each cannon began sighting down the barrel and adjusting the elevating screw.
Konowa glanced toward the canyon. A blue light was beginning to fill the sky just inside the opening between the two rocky shoulders. The way forward was littered with burning bodies. Fire creatures dashed back and forth spitting white flame while musket fire popped. The sarka har continued to grow, pushing the boundary of the forest ever closer to the canyon opening. The Iron Elves were going to have to move fast.
“Cannons…on my command…fire!”
Round shot hurtled out of the three cannon barrels and arced across the night sky toward the mayhem ahead. The shots fell short, but this was not a bad thing. The iron balls bounced low over the sand, smashing through anything that stood in their way. A drakarri exploded in a flash of white that temporarily turned night into day. Sarka har were cut down by the dozen, their trunks shorn in two by the shot.
Round after round roared from the cannons and the troops watching cheered as the path ahead was cleared. All too soon, however, the last shot left the barrels and silence reigned across the line of Iron Elves. The smoke from the cannons drifted lazily up into the sky and once more the voice of battle swept over them.
“Regiment…make ready!”
The muskets of the front-row men dropped from their shoulders and came to rest at their hips. Those in the back rank brought their muskets across their chest to port.
Konowa stayed to the side, raising his musket again. Frost fire flared along the length of the blade.
“By the left…march!”
Every soldier stepped forward and the Iron Elves began the march toward the canyon. The drummer picked up the beat again.
Fire creatures turned to face the regiment, their jaws opening to reveal the furnaces that burned inside.
