by Chris Evans
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ASHES OF A BLACK FROST
Also by Chris Evans
A DARKNESS FORGED IN FIRE
(Book One of The Iron Elves)
THE LIGHT OF BURNING SHADOWS
(Book Two of The Iron Elves)
Gallery Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales
or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Chris Evans
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any
form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department,
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books hardcover edition October 2011
GALLERY BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Designed by Stephanie D. Walker
Map by Michael Bechthold
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Evans, Chris (Chris R.)
Ashes of a black frost / Chris Evans.—1st Pocket Books hardcover ed.
p. cm.— (Iron elves ; bk. 3)
1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Soldiers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3605.V3645A93 2011
813’.6—dc23
2011024998
ISBN 978-1-4391-8066-2
ISBN 978-1-4391-8068-6 (ebook)
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Wenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Glossary
To the shooting star who lit up my sky
and helped me find my way.
Thank you.
We giving all gained all.
Neither lament us nor praise.
Only in all things recall,
It is Fear, not Death that slays.
—Rudyard Kipling, “Epitaphs of the War”
The night sky deepened, stripped bare in the growing cold. Stars burst forth like silent musket volleys, pricking the heavens with rosettes of white light. On the desert floor below, remnants of lives littered the sand in all directions. Broken bodies draped limply over rocks. Ash piles marked the deaths, though not the final resting places, of many more. Bones jutted from the sand at angles—not odd angles, though, for that would suggest that there were ways bones could protrude that made sense—and the eyes of those still living stared and saw nothing.
Or did their best not to.
Major Konowa Swift Dragon, second-in-command of the Calahrian Empire’s Iron Elves, stood among the carnage. His six-foot-tall frame loomed above the fallen like the last tree in a dying forest. Red-rimmed eyes and cracked and bleeding lips stained with black powder offered the only contrast in a face coated in gray soot. The ferocity of the battle marked his uniform, too. The once vibrant silver green of the cloth was now mottled in blood, dirt, black powder, and bits of gore. Ripped and burned sections of uniform exposed strips of bare brown flesh streaked with grime.
He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. He realized he wasn’t sure what time it was, or even what day. Battle did that, winnowing away everything until all that was left was a furiously burning spark that ignited only one of two actions—kill, or flee and be killed. But battles didn’t last forever, at least, not in the physical realm. Konowa felt his warrior veneer slip a little as time reasserted itself. The toxic high of battle that sustained and drove him when he shouldn’t have been able to swing his saber one more time began to subside. Visions of the grotesque, the obscene, and the heartbreaking began leaching into tissue and memory, staining his very character and thoughts so deeply that no lifetime of drink and repression would erase them.
The wind snatched at the loose strands of his long black hair tied in the back in a regulation queue. A storm front was moving in.
With his left hand he absently pushed the hairs out of his eyes and behind his ear. His fingers paused as they traced the shorn ear tip. He’d been marked as a chosen one by the Shadow Monarch, his ear tip frost-blackened in the womb. He was one of the first so marked to remain with the tribe, albeit minus part of an ear. So fearful were the elves of the Hyntaland of the Shadow Monarch’s touch that they chose to abandon babies born with the disfigurement to their deaths in the wild rather than raise them. In this way the Shadow Monarch gained Her children, collecting the babes and raising them as Her own. In time, they grew to be as twisted and dark as the Silver Wolf Oak at the center of Her mountain forest.
Neither their fate nor Konowa’s was one any elf should have to bear, but no one had asked if they accepted the burden. A thin, cold pain gripped his chest where the black acorn, the source of the Iron Elves eternal existence, rested against his chest. It was a reminder that the power of the frost fire and the curse of a hellish life after death had been a burden of his own choosing.
His hand reached up to adjust his shako, the distinctive tall black hat with its winged appendages, and realized it had fallen off. He looked down and spied it a few feet away. He walked over slowly, ignoring the wet sounds beneath his boots, bent down, and picked it up. When he tipped it right side up to place it on his head, a silver locket fell out and landed in the sand. It’s not my shako, he realized.
After looking inside to see if anything else was there, he put the shako on his head and crouched down to where the locket lay half-buried in the sand. He grasped it gingerly between finger and thumb as if he were plucking a rose and trying not to get jabbed by a thorn. The metal was cool to the touch and Konowa realized that it wasn’t silver at all, but simple pewter. It was oval in shape and no more than an inc
h tall, and a small post at one end was broken where a chain would have fastened, no doubt explaining why the soldier had chosen to keep it under his shako for safekeeping.
Konowa stood back up, cringing as his left knee spasmed and threatened to collapse. He closed his fist and pounded it against the joint, and the spasm shuddered to a halt. When he opened his hand again, he saw that the locket had popped open. He brought his right hand up to open the locket all the way and stopped in surprise. He was still holding his saber.
A sliver of his reflection stared back at him from the polished steel. He twisted the blade slowly, letting it catch the starlight. Shadows slid across his face, arcing from nose to eye socket, concealing and revealing eyes that had seen more than they ever should.
Still, they did not blink.
He lowered the blade and sheathed it one handed in a single, fluid motion. Releasing his grip on the pommel sent blood flowing back into his fingers with a fiery sting. He flexed them a few times, then pried the locket completely open. The hinge broke and the two halves lay flat in his palm. The right half contained a small lock of blond hair tied with a thin, purple thread. The left bore an inscription of just four words—Come back to me.
Konowa’s hands fell to his sides, the pieces of locket tumbling to the sand. Noises he hadn’t realized were there filled his ears. The soft ting-ting of cooling musket barrels; the gulping down of brackish water by throats parched and raw from inhaling smoke and shouting; and a single, ragged scream from someone dying. All of it slid in deep between the ear and the brain like a sliver that would never work free.
Come back to me.
It was a plea, an admonition, a desperate hope from a wife. Everything was implied—love, trust, need, desire—but nothing would be fulfilled.
Nearby, a quill began scratching across a piece of paper. The sound carried to Konowa in thin, clear tones. He felt the rhythm of the point as it curved and sliced its path. He turned, letting something more than his hearing guide him. Her Majesty’s Scribe, Rallie Synjyn, sat on a rock among the bodies, a scroll unfurled across her lap. Her black cloak blended with the darkness as if the night itself was part of her. The feather barbs of her quill fluttered as the wind and her writing picked up speed.
Konowa watched, mesmerized. From this distance he couldn’t see what she was writing, yet he imagined he saw every word. The quill rose above the page, moved over, and plunged back down. He saw the story unfold back in the world they’d left behind.
This desert of wasted lives and damaged souls was a battle won, the sharp end of imperial power applied. On maps in headquarters far away, the red-rimmed limits of the empire would surge outward as another pin was pushed in place. Bottles would be uncorked and talk of promotions—discreet of course, lest one be seen as too eager—would creep into conversation. Through the news sheets and crier services, the citizens of the Calahrian Empire would learn of the Iron Elves’ latest feat of arms and rejoice at their triumph over the Shadow Monarch’s minions and the ancient desert power of Kaman Rhal’s dragon. Evil was thwarted once again and the power of a new Star was delivered unto the people, courtesy of the benevolent Empire. The cost—fifty-four soldiers dead, wounded, and missing, and a couple hundred native warriors lost against untold hundreds of the enemy—would seem satisfactorily grim and proportionate.
Sergeant Yimt Arkhorn and most of his squad. Missing . . .
. . . his mother, Chayii Red Owl; his father, Jurwan Leaf Talker; Tyul Mountain Spring; and Jir, his bengar companion. Missing . . .
Visyna . . .
These names, these people, would mean little to someone back home, except for a very few for whom these names would be everything. No doubt the masses would show appropriate concern at the frittering away of valuable resources in such a far-flung place. Konowa suspected they would be satisfied that the losses suffered offered the requisite sense of drama and the all-important Imperial motif of the few overcoming the many. No one, not even an empire, wants to be viewed as a bully.
Konowa knew celebrations would ensue, albeit without the guests of honor that had made it possible. Still, it was everyone’s patriotic duty to hoist a pint, shout brave slogans, and remind all those within earshot that if not for “this bum knee” or “a wife and six young children to feed” they, too, would be over there, instead of quartered safe in here. Smiles would abound as revelers congratulated one another, winking as they nodded their heads and said with gruff pride, “Damn right, we showed them, eh?” If a twinge of embarrassment caught in their throats as they pronounced “we,” it would be quickly washed away with the next round of drinks.
For now, however, the “we” were confined to a few small acres of ravaged land so far from home that home seemed more like a fevered dream than something real. There was no backslapping, no loud shouts of martial prowess or Imperial superiority. Quiet sobs of those trying to understand that the “we” were now fewer were studiously ignored by those fighting to keep it together. The tenets of diplomatic doctrine and the flush of Imperial pride found no purchase here. Later, perhaps, Konowa thought, they would see themselves as victors. For now, it was enough to struggle to comprehend that they were survivors.
The wind worried the edges of Rallie’s scroll. Konowa shivered. Rallie paused, her quill frozen above the paper. She looked up, pushing the hood of her black cloak back on her head. Gray, frizzy hair framed her face, hard-earned wisdom etched into every crease. The end of the cigar clenched between her teeth glowed fiery orange as she inhaled. Her eyes found his.
She was weeping.
A moment later her face disappeared in a veil of smoke. The drop of ink at the tip of the quill trembled. A chill breeze set the downy barbs thrumming. The drop fell, splattering onto the page.
It began to snow.
Konowa blinked. Flakes fell and skittered along the sand and the bodies lying there. A few snowflakes found the gap between his neck and the collar of his uniform, sending tiny rivulets of water down his back as they melted. He took a breath, his whole body shuddering as he let it out.
It was snowing.
Snowing in the middle of the bloody desert.
The laugh that escaped his lips startled him. He gritted his teeth, but more laughter rose up, spilling out in ragged gasps. His breath exploded in chalky sprays in the cooling night air. Soldiers lifted their heads to turn and stare. He couldn’t stop. His ribs ached and his lungs seared as they struggled for air, yet the laughter only grew.
He stood surrounded by death. The very smell of it permeated him so deeply he could no longer tell where it ended and he began. So many gone, condemned to a living hell of service after death — and here he was, laughing. He doubled over and braced his hands against his knees, but the laughter would not die. The natural order, always a buzzing, confused noise on the edge of his understanding, coursed around him as if storm-tossed by the approaching blizzard. He didn’t even bother to make sense of it. He didn’t need to. He stood up straight, gasping for air, with tears running down his face. He was still laughing, but now finally under control.
He was alive, and he was an elf. Maybe not an elf like the others, but then who said he had to be? What mattered was what he felt. A dawning, as yet barely grasped and understood determination, began to fill him. It flooded into the spaces left empty by the losses he’d suffered. It calmed, though it did not quench, the pain and agony he’d been using as fuel. This was something different, something quieter, yet stronger because of it. He knew now in a way he hadn’t before that the fallen did not die in vain. The missing would be found, no matter what their fate. And the Blood Oath of the Iron Elves would be broken.
He had no words for it, and doubted he could explain it even if he did. This went beyond anything he could say. All his life he’d known anger. It burned him, but he’d come to enjoy that pain. He was never more alive than when he was screaming at the top of his lungs and charging headlong at the enemy. Now . . . now he saw the first steps on a new path, one that saw beyond the ho
rizon of battle.
He took in a few deep breaths, letting the laughter subside. So be it. There was always a price to pay, and his would be higher than most. He would pay it a thousand times over to end what the Shadow Monarch had started. He wasn’t going to be a pawn any longer. Not for Her, not for the Empire, and not for his anger. He rolled his shoulders and stood straighter. His body relaxed as muscles unknotted. He felt . . . taller, stronger, more alive than he had in a long time. In another place he might have even felt happy, but the carnage around him ensured that that emotion remained distant. If there was any joy at all to be found, it was in this: Before he took his last breath, he would end Her.
Konowa became aware that silence had fallen around him. The sound of Rallie’s quill on paper had ceased. He glanced up. The stars had vanished, the sky muddled with thickening clouds.
“It appears to be snowing, Major,” Rallie said, as gruff and matter-of-fact as ever. Konowa was relieved to hear she had stopped crying. He couldn’t handle that, not right now.
He shook his head and snow cascaded down from his shako. This wasn’t good. Konowa had never been to the desert before and had no inkling of the annual levels of rain or other weather events that might occur within the Hasshugeb Expanse. Still, he was certain that before tonight, the chances of snow blanketing this typically sunbaked landscape had been specifically “none.” And before his arrival, the chances of snow falling in this desert wasteland would have remained none, probably for eternity. But of course, those damn stars were changing all that.
Konowa turned his gaze to the north. The Shadow Monarch’s forest blocked his view. He should have found comfort in the fact that the malevolent trees and the many foul creatures that roamed within their thrashing embrace were retreating, pushed back by the power unleashed by the fallen Blue Star, the Jewel of the Desert. Having transformed into a towering tree, it rose high above the valley floor, the blue fire of its energy blazing from deep within branch and leaf, wreathing every shadow in cobalt. He wanted to find solace in the knowledge that here, as in Elfkyna, the power of the Stars was greater than that of the Shadow Monarch, but he couldn’t.
