Ashes of a Black Frost

by Chris Evans

  “Listen up. We’re going to keep falling back in an orderly fashion. Stay together and hold your fire. These damn trees are walking powder kegs! We’ll fall back fifty yards, then we’ll hold and wait for them to close in on us. When they do, we’ll all shoot at the furthest tree. That should punch through the extra scales or bark or whatever the hell it is.”

  The soldiers didn’t need a second invitation. The ten remaining men got up and scrambled through the snow. Konowa made sure they were all moving, then followed after them. He was sweating freely and almost ripped the Hasshugeb robe off, but the sight of all the snow persuaded him he’d best keep it. He counted out fifty yards in his head then called a halt. The soldiers turned and formed a single line shoulder to shoulder. Without waiting for the order, they took a knee, a few having to yank their robes out of the way. Each man brought his musket up to his shoulder and waited for Konowa’s command to fire.

  “Remember, lads, they’re just trees,” Konowa said, walking behind each soldier and patting him on the shoulder. “They might have learned a few tricks, but we’re a damn sight smarter than any walking piece of wood.”

  “I see one!” a soldier shouted, swinging his musket in the direction of a sarka har emerging from the snow.

  “Steady, and watch where you point a loaded musket. Remember your drill, lads. We’ll wait until the others show themselves, then we aim for the last one. If they want to try that flaming fireball trick again, they’ll have to backtrack, and by then we’ll be gone.”

  Three more trees appeared, each moving forward in a stilted, creaking gait. Konowa shuddered, but quickly stamped his boots in the snow to regain control. He waited another minute, but no more trees showed themselves. “Okay, we’ll take out the one on the far left.”

  As one, the soldiers leveled their muskets at the sarka har. Konowa brought his own musket up to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel.

  “Ready . . . fire!”

  Eleven muskets crackled to life. White-orange flame lit the night as sparks flew from the barrels. All eleven musket balls hit the trunk of the sarka har at almost the same instant. The double layer of black dragon scale bark proved no match for the lead balls. The heartwood splintered, filling the air with a mist of brown ichor. A flickering flame on a piece of bark ignited the mist and the tree went up like a bomb.

  Konowa dropped down beside the soldiers as flaming pieces of the tree, trailing an oily, foul-smelling smoke, flew over his head.

  “Go back to where you came from, you stupid buggers!” Private Feylan yelled, slinging his musket and picking up a still burning length of branch and snapping it in half before quickly slapping his hands in the snow to cool them. The surviving sarka har ignored his taunt and went about the same procedure as before, stumbling back toward the flaming wreckage and adding more dragon scale bark to their trunks before gathering up burning chunks of wood.

  “Nicely put,” Konowa said, tapping the private on the shoulder and motioning for him to fall back. “Now it’s time for us to advance in the other direction and get the hell out of here. We’ve got to warn the column there are more of the damn things coming after them.”

  “I sent three of the men after the column as soon as we realized we were in trouble,” Feylan said.

  Brave and thinks on his feet. Konowa was impressed. “If they stay clear of those things, they should hook up with the column before long. Good work.”

  Konowa risked a quick glance over at Private Feylan and was pleased to see the young private’s face only had the barest of smiles on it. Proud, but professional. It made Konowa wonder how Feylan landed in the Iron Elves, but he’d have to ask him that another time. For now he focused his attention on the trees.

  Their branches began to blaze as they caught fire again, but with each backward step the falling snow and the dark masked them until they disappeared completely. Konowa stopped for a moment and stared at the night. It all seemed like a terrible nightmare. Of course, it was—it was just that they were awake.

  “Everything okay, Major?” Feylan asked.

  “What?” Konowa said, making a show of removing his shako and wiping his brow with his sleeve before putting the hat back in place. “Just had to slow down for a second to cool off. All this running around gets me a little hot.”

  Silence greeted this, and Konowa remembered they had just lost a friend. He wanted to ask them to describe Grostril, hoping something would trigger a memory, but he realized that would only make them feel worse.

  “Look, lads, just keep doing what you’re doing and we’ll be fine. Grostril was unlucky. Keep your heads on your shoulders, stay sharp, hold your fire, shout out if you see anything, and you’ll have better luck.”

  They continued to backtrack through the snow. What had started as a neat line soon collapsed into a tight ball with muskets covering all points of the compass. Konowa had seen it before in battle. Soldiers would seek the comfort of having a comrade nearby and orderly lines began to mesh into ungainly herds. It was dangerous to be grouped so close together like that, especially when the sarka har could hurl flaming chunks of exploding wood, but the morale boost it gave the men was worth the risk, so Konowa said nothing.

  “I would have thought the Darkly Departed would have showed up at some point,” Feylan said. It sounded rhetorical, but Konowa knew all the soldiers were wondering the same thing, and so was he. Why hadn’t the dead appeared when they needed them?

  “Could be they’re busy elsewhere,” Konowa said, hoping the regiment wasn’t currently under attack. “Or maybe they finally got some leave.”

  No one laughed this time, and Konowa didn’t blame them. He opted to change the subject. He slowed his pace a little and motioned for Feylan to walk with him as the other soldiers continued moving in a tight cluster.

  “Damn impressive the way you’ve organized the men. What happened to your corporal?”

  “A branch took his head clean off,” Feylan said, his voice surprisingly calm for such a statement.

  Konowa cringed, recalling he’d just told the men to keep their heads on their shoulders.

  Now Feylan’s voice did catch, but he covered it with a cough. “When we first saw the trees, we thought they were soldiers, too, and he started to cuss them out for getting lost. He walked right up to one. After that I sort of just took over, but any of them could have done it. Guess I just piped up first.”

  Konowa knew better. Leaders stepped forward in time of danger. “You did more than that.”

  They walked on in silence. Konowa became aware of his boots crunching through the ice crust forming on the snow. He strained his ears in hopes of hearing the approach of the 3rd Spears coming back to their aid, but of course they’d have to fight their way through the other sarka har that were now somewhere between the end of the column and the rear guard.

  I failed them. The thought struck Konowa particularly hard. If the rear guard hadn’t moved off the path to save him, they would have stayed in position to slow down the sarka har and warn the 3rd Spears. Because of him the entire column was at risk. It all came down to the three soldiers Feylan had sent forward to warn the others. If they didn’t make it, the sarka har would catch them completely unaware.

  “I think I hear something,” a soldier said.

  The group shuffled to a stop. Konowa doubted any of them were breathing, himself included, as they focused all their energy on the night around them. Konowa didn’t bother pushing his senses. The acorn was a constant cold pain against his chest now, which, when added with the numbing cold of the weather, was making it increasingly difficult to tell one from the other.

  After a minute of listening to nothing, Konowa was about to order them to move when a piece of wood creaked somewhere in the dark.

  “There, did you hear it?” the soldier asked. “It’s one of them sarka har, and it’s close.”

  “Shhhhh,” Konowa said, waving at the soldier to be quiet. Konowa turned his head to one side and closed his eyes. He heard the c
reaking sound again, but couldn’t get a location on it. Damn these ears. Realizing it was pointless, he opened his eyes and looked at the soldiers around him. They had all turned and were staring in the direction the column had taken.

  “Off the road, now,” Konowa hissed, using his musket to direct the men. They moved quickly, pushing through the deeper snow until they were fifteen yards away. He turned and dropped to one knee, wrapping the leather sling of his musket around his left forearm, grounding the weapon on his thigh to keep it out of the snow. The men formed up beside him to his left, following his lead. Konowa kept his eyes on the road as he addressed them.

  “We’ll hit the sarka har as soon as they appear. That should draw them this way. While they pick up the bark and get ready to throw more fire, we’ll swing around and run like hell to catch up with the regiment.”

  The sound of creaking wood grew closer. Someone coughed, followed by a thump as another soldier whacked the offender.

  Konowa rolled his head to work a crick out of his neck and forced his breathing to slow. “I’ll call out the tree to aim at and then we fire on my command. We’ll reload once, I’ll designate another tree, fire again, then take off. If any of you get separated from the group, stay on the road and keep running. They’re slow and stupid. You’re faster and not as stupid.”

  There was no telling if the soldiers laughed because the sound of wood grinding and knocking against itself rose in pitch to drown out even the wind.

  “Bloody hell,” Feylan said, “that sounds like twenty of them charging.”

  “Ready . . .” Konowa said, bringing the butt of his musket tight against his shoulder and resting his cheek against the stock. The smooth coolness of the wood felt comforting against his skin.

  Somewhere down the line a soldier began to sob.

  “Remember the boys that aren’t here anymore. Remember . . . Grostril,” Konowa said, thinking of so many others they had lost. “This is our chance to avenge a lot of wrongs.”

  The groan of wood being pushed to its limit filled the night. Konowa shifted his knee in the snow and sighted down the barrel of his musket. His world constricted to a small patch of snow-covered road fifteen yards away. All his anger and frustration poured out of him and focused on that place. The Shadow Monarch Herself wouldn’t survive if She showed up now.

  “As soon as the first one appears I’ll call it, then we fire.”

  No sooner had Konowa spoken the words than a shadow burst out of the darkness and entered the killing ground.

  The shadow grew in size, filling the area on the road directly in front of Konowa’s musket. “Ready . . . Aim . . .” He hesitated before uttering the final command. The acorn against his chest was no longer cold. Konowa lifted his cheek from the stock and looked closer.

  “Hold your fire! Hold your fire! It’s Rallie!”

  Her Majesty’s Scribe appeared out of the dark in a swirl of snow. As it settled, her wagon and the team of camels pulling it became visible, making the sound of the creaking wood clear. She pulled on the reins and brought the camels to a halt. The beasts brayed and spit and shook their heads, clearly agitated. With the reins still bunched in her hands, Rallie stood up and looked at Konowa.

  “Bit of a cold night for a walk. I thought you fellows might enjoy a lift.”

  Konowa turned to the soldiers beside him to make sure they had lowered their muskets. It had been that close.

  “On your feet,” Konowa said, relief making it difficult for him to keep his voice from shaking. “Get in the back and stay alert.”

  They ran toward the wagon like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline, and Konowa realized that was pretty much the truth. He walked up to the front by Rallie, ignoring the camels, then turned to make sure all his men were aboard.

  A set of large yellow teeth flashed out from the darkness and made a grab for Konowa’s right shoulder.

  Konowa shouted and flung himself out of the way, punching wildly and missing. He landed hard on his back and his musket fell from his hand. He fumbled madly for his saber, which was now tangled up in his robe. His shako popped off his head as if the wings on it were giving it flight in the storm-driven wind. The blast of icy air on his scalp cleared his senses.

  It dawned on him as he frantically fought to get the blade free that the black acorn hadn’t flared. He sensed several sets of eyes staring at him and he looked up.

  “Come now, Major, the darling thing meant no harm,” Rallie said from six feet above him. Her four camels hitched in pairs in front of the wagon stared at him in direct contradiction. She sat back down on the wooden bench and teased out the bundle of leather reins in her hands.

  “I beg to differ,” Konowa muttered, scooting back another few feet until he was well out of reach of the-less-than-darling thing’s teeth and hooves. Only then did he risk climbing to his feet, scooping up his musket first and then his shako. He placed it back on his head, all while keeping a wary eye on the camels. He heard a snicker and snapped his head around to look at the back of the wagon. Ten heads looking over the side of the wagon vanished in an instant.

  Rallie’s reins snapped and the camels reluctantly turned away from him and began lumbering forward. Konowa let them pass, then jumped up onto the wagon to sit beside her. He set his musket between his legs and turned to look behind him. The soldiers were huddling together to stay warm in between bundles of supplies and what appeared to be at least some of the Viceroy’s things. They had their muskets pointed outward though and were scanning the darkness. None of them risked looking at Konowa, but a couple of them gripped their muskets tighter and leaned forward to indicate their dedication. Konowa growled, but he knew he didn’t blame them. He would have laughed, too, if it hadn’t been him on the wrong end of an angry camel.

  “The sarka har can walk,” Konowa said, turning back to face the front, “and throw fire. Oh, and they explode now, too.”

  Rallie sawed on the reins and the camels turned to the left, stomping through the deeper snow until they had turned the wagon around and were heading on the road in the same direction as the column. “Rather nifty, that,” Rallie said, her voice revealing more than a trace of fascination. “It seems they found some dragon eggs, Major. Lucky for us a brood nest only held no more than fifteen.”

  “Dragon eggs . . . Is the regiment okay? Did those trees attack?”

  “The regiment continues much as it did before, although I must say the degree of overall jumpiness has risen sharply. Three members of the rear guard made it back in time to warn us and with the 3rd Spears leading the way, they dispatched another six of the sarka har. It was a remarkable sight, but I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “No, I have a pretty good idea what that looks like,” Konowa said. “And the Darkly Departed?”

  “Stellar service, as always. Private Renwar made sure of it. Why?”

  “We could have used their help,” Konowa muttered.

  “Ah,” Rallie said, leaving it at that.

  “But dragon eggs? How did they find any out here?” Konowa asked, choosing to change the subject. “I don’t recall hearing about dragons in these parts for centuries.”

  Rallie didn’t answer right away. When she did, she chose her words carefully. “Do you think me . . . mysterious, Major?”

  “You’re a woman,” Konowa blurted out before he could stop himself. “I find your entire species mysterious.”

  Rallie chuckled. “Oh what I wouldn’t give to see you appointed to the diplomatic corps one day. But truly, do I seem different?”

  The heat generated from his close encounters was rapidly dissipating and Konowa shivered, pulling his robe closer around him. “If you’re asking if I think you know a lot more than you let on, yes. Do I think you have your reasons for that, yes. Do I care, not really. You’ve more than earned my respect and gratitude. I have no doubt that if there was something I needed to know, and you knew it, you’d tell me.”

  “Why, Major, you’ve made an old woman blush,
” she said, and by the timbre of her voice, he could tell she wasn’t joking.

  “Why do you ask?” Konowa said. “You’ve never seemed too concerned about what anyone thought about you before now.”

  Rallie stared ahead, her cloak billowing as the wind picked up. “I can accept the aches and pains of old age, but losing one’s memory wasn’t part of the bargain.”

  Konowa sensed a shift in her mood to something darker. “What are you talking about? You’re as sharp as a box of tacks.”

  Rallie nodded, but kept looking straight ahead. “It used to be two boxes,” she said. “I’m old, Major, older than you think, in fact, older than I think I think.”

  It was tempting to ask her if she’d been drinking, but Konowa knew better. “We are going to make it through this, you know,” he said at last, hoping it was the right thing to say.

  This time Rallie did turn and look at him. Her eyes were misty, but there was a smile on her lips. “That, Major, was the perfect thing to say.”

  They rode on in silence with only the creaking of the wagon and the wind disturbing the night. Konowa fidgeted on the wooden bench. He was still keyed up from the battle. His thoughts were a mess. What was up with Rallie? He hoped it was just the cold and the dark. She’d always been a rock; the idea that even she could crack wasn’t something he’d considered. And what of Renwar? He wanted to rail at the soldier for abandoning them to the sarka har, but was it malice on his part, or sound judgment? A rear guard was often sacrificed in order to give warning to the rest of the column. Konowa tried to convince himself that’s what had happened, and failed. He shook his head and tried to think of something else.

  “It’s cold,” he said, blowing on his hands before tucking them into the folds of his robe. A sudden thought popped into his head. “Will your creatures survive weather like this? All the ones you let go back at the canyon?”

  Rallie turned and looked to the north before turning back. “Dandy and Wobbly are survivors. I’ve every expectation of seeing them again. The sreexes should be all right if they stayed together as a flock, but in this wind it’s difficult to say. Alas, it’s my brindos I fear for. A bit delicate, if you want to know the truth. I fear I coddled them, but they are such adorable animals, so how could I not?”