Ashes of a Black Frost

by Chris Evans

  Gasping for breath and clutching his side Yimt forced himself to his elbows and then his knees. He reached out with his right hand and patted the dirt looking for another rock to throw. A dark figure loomed over him and he looked up to see a rakke standing a foot away. Its mouth was a gaping jigsaw of sharp fangs. Yimt wondered why it hadn’t already lunged at him when he noticed it was cradling one of its paws. It was clearly shattered.

  “You daft . . . silly . . . bugger,” he said, forcing the words out between breaths.

  The rakke tilted its head in obvious pain and confusion.

  “Punching a dwarf in the ribs that’s spent his whole life chewing crute is like taking a swing at a boulder. It’s the rock spice you bloody nitwit!” Yimt shouted, though the effort almost blacked him out. “It seeps into our teeth and bones. Makes them denser than you. Hell, not even a musket ball can make it through these things. And I should know.”

  The rakke roared and threw back its head in preparation to pounce. Its head went back, and back, and then kept on going, rolling across its right shoulder and then tumbling down its arm and onto the gravel where it landed face up. Blood spurted from its neck as the body remained perfectly still.

  “What the hell?” Yimt said, his hand finally locating a rock. He gripped it as hard as he could, feeling the frost fire take hold. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the headless rakke standing in front of him. Then as if the strings holding it up had been cut, the body collapsed straight down. It didn’t flop or spasm. Standing behind it, shrouded in swirling snow, was the elf with a now bloody sword. Looking past it, Yimt saw the crumpled bodies of the other two rakkes.

  “Much obliged to you, but you ain’t taking me alive,” Yimt said, picking up the rock and bringing his arm all the way back. He saw the other elf appear out of the corner of his eye. Its bowstring was pulled fully back and an arrow pointed straight at him. The frost fire blazed like a star in his hand as he brought his arm forward to throw the rock at the elf holding the sword. The second elf released the bowstring setting the arrow to flight.

  This, Yimt thought, is going to hur—

  Konowa sat up straight on the wagon’s wooden bench and reached for his chest. The black acorn flared then grew quiet again. He grabbed up his musket and peered out into the night. There was nothing to see but snow and rocks and sand. Now back with the column and relatively safe he should have been able to relax, but it wasn’t working. I’m getting jumpy, he decided, sitting back against the bench. He looked over at Rallie, who continued to stare straight ahead, giving no indication she had noticed, though he knew damn well she had.

  Better safe than dead, he consoled himself, resting his chin on his chest and pulling his shoulders up as far as he could. The cold was seeping into him, making him jumpy. He crossed his arms and, tucking his hands into the folds of his Hasshugeb robe, eased back further on the bench. With a scarf fashioned from a piece of a burlap sack wound around his face and his shako pulled low over his forehead only his eyes remained visible. Guilt gnawed at him in his cocoon, knowing the majority of the regiment marched in the foul weather while he rode in relative warmth. An icy gust found a chink in his fabric armor jolting him upright. He adjusted the robe before slipping back down into a semi-reclined position. For now, he could live with the guilt.

  He wasn’t sure when he’d slept last. If they had any hope at all of getting out of the Expanse and to the coast he’d need to be sharp. It was a rationalization and he knew it, but he dealt with it by knowing the rear guard led by the very able Private Feylan rode along with him in the back of Rallie’s wagon. It was a well-deserved luxury and they had earned it.

  Lest he be seen as playing favorites, he had also given the regiment permission to dip into the last sack of arr beans. There was no hot arr to be had on the move, but the soldiers popped the beans into their mouths and sucked on the bitter juice. Just the memory of the vile taste filled Konowa’s mouth with saliva. Each bean was like a shot of lightning. He’d once marched five days straight on nothing but water and a handful of arr. Of course, he’d started seeing orcs riding flying unicorns by the end, but he’d survived, and so would the Iron Elves.

  He wriggled around, trying and failing to get comfortable. Muscles ached with memories of battle he was doing his damnedest to forget. He carefully rolled his right shoulder and quickly stopped as the motion gave fuel to the burning coal of pain lodged deep in the socket. His old friend the Duke of Rakestraw called it saber shoulder and said it happened a lot in the cavalry.

  Konowa wondered what Jaal was up to. Hopefully something far less desperate than this. The wagon tilted as its right side wheels found a rut and Konowa slammed against the wooden slat that acted as an armrest. The pain in his shoulder flared, bringing his attention back to the here and now. Why couldn’t the damn cold of the oath deal with that? he wondered.

  The wagon righted itself and the ride went back to being simply bone jarring. He peered into the sky. He tried to calculate the time and gave up immediately when he realized he wasn’t entirely sure what day it was let alone the hour. Already his sense of time was stretching and twisting. The driving snow dulled everything, turning the world before him into a gray-tinged blur. Not long ago such a storm would have been enough to foul his mood and send him questing deep into himself, asking why him and what the hell was going on. Now he saw the way forward and would not be deviated to either side. The Iron Elves were headed for the Shadow Monarch’s mountain and one way or another, the oath would be broken. That was the why and the what of it.

  A sudden gust of wind tore a brief window in the screen of snow. The column appeared, stretching out ahead of them like a black snake, its body a series of curves as the soldiers marched. A moment later it was gone again, lost in the swirling snow. Konowa considered finding Viceroy Alstonfar—Pimmer—he corrected himself, and asking him again if he was certain the regiment was heading in the right direction. Private Renwar appeared to know, but just how sane the soldier was Konowa couldn’t say. Still, Konowa told himself, Pimmer would no doubt sound the alarm if they strayed off course. His faith in the diplomat continued to grow. Besides, to check with Pimmer would mean leaving the wagon seat just when he thought he was finding a position offering the least amount of pain. And the last time Konowa had set off by himself had not exactly gone as planned.

  The regiment, Konowa concluded as he let his back sag a little more, was unerringly headed for the fort on top of Suhundam’s Hill. They would arrive at the foot of the hill in the next few hours . . . probably. What he hoped to find there remained a mystery to him.

  The wind changed direction and Konowa picked up voices in the dark. He realized they were coming from the soldiers riding in the wagon bed behind him. A laugh drifted to him and the urge to turn and join in the conversation pulled at him hard, but he instinctively knew this was a time when soldiers needed to be alone, free to piss and moan and laugh about life, the fairer sex, food, officers, and the general state of the world from their vantage point. Konowa forced himself to stay where he was. He did, however, turn his head slightly so that he could catch a bit more of what was being said.

  “. . . you grease it up nice and thick, see, and that keeps it from sticking when it gets hot. Now if you’re baking a rye bread you might want to consider a flat stone instead of a metal pan. Personally, I like to let the dough rise . . .”

  Konowa smiled. A world of monsters surrounded them and their main concern was food. His own stomach gurgled and the taste of a warm loaf of fresh bread pushed all other thoughts out of his head. His fingers twitched as he remembered tearing pieces of a still hot loaf into chunks as steam rose from the soft bread within. His mother always had a wooden bowl of fresh honey for dipping, but only if he promised to eat a handful of berries and nuts as well. It was a bargain he was always happy to make. Maybe one day he’d have that chance again.

  “. . . with the damn recipes. I could gnaw the knobby bits off a camel at this point, so leave off would you? Now h
ere’s what you want to be puttin’ your minds to. Where’s our treasure then, eh?”

  Ahh, a soldier with a bit of the pirate in him. Konowa wondered where this would go. Just a few scant hours ago all of them were a hairs-breadth from dying at the hands of infernal trees, and now they were talking about loot.

  “Are you on about that again? The library burned, didn’t it? Mostly rubbish was left, scrolls and papers and such which the fire didn’t touch. The Viceroy grabbed those up and he’s welcome to them is how I see it.”

  “But not all of it burned, did it?” the first soldier said. Konowa tried to place the voice but he couldn’t. He realized the only soldier he knew by name out of the rear guard was Feylan. He’d have to learn the others. They all deserved a commendation.

  “Think about this,” the soldier continued. “We sail across the ocean jumping onto island after island to gut every last rakke and dark elf we find, yeah? We’re all gonna get medals for it, too, right?”

  Another soldier interrupted. “Me mum’ll be right proud of me coming home with a medal or two on my jacket.” Konowa recognized the voice. Definitely Private Feylan.

  “She’d be a damn sight prouder if you had a small chest of coins tucked under your arm is all I’m saying.”

  More voices chimed in. Talk of riches clearly captured their imaginations.

  “Duhlik says there was more in the library than we’re bein’ told. He says he knows for a fact that there’s fifty pounds of gold coins in small bags that made it out of the library.”

  “Who’s Duhlik then and how many arrows did he take to the brain?”

  Laughter greeted this, but the soldier talking about the gold coins would not be deterred.

  “Duhlik, short fellow, about yea high, kind of weedy in the face. He’s the one what got the sister who goes bald every time she’s in a motherly way.”

  “That ain’t Duhlik, that’s Wistofer, and it ain’t his sister, it’s his wife. Saints and rabid owls, man, can’t you tell them apart by now?”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter who said it, right? What matters is that it’s true. We’re marching along here as thin as paupers and the Prince and the major have packed away a fortune in gold coins. Why do you think we’re lugging those cannons around with no shot for them? They stuffed the coins down the barrels see.”

  “I don’t think Major Swift Dragon would do that,” Feylan said.

  Konowa nodded silently in agreement, but he did admire the other soldier’s view on his general level of craftiness. Hiding valuables down a cannon barrel wasn’t a bad idea at all, at least until you had to use it.

  “He’s an officer, ain’t he? They’re every one of them thieves of a sort. You know what it costs to be an officer? Lots, that’s what. You gotta buy extra uniforms for fancy balls and such, mess hall fees, rounds of drinks, nice shiny swords, a horse more times than not, and at least one mistress on the side in addition to a wife and kids. All adds up.”

  “That may be true,” Private Feylan said, “but the major’s not like that.”

  You just made corporal, my son, Konowa decided.

  “He’s an elf, and they’re kinda peculiar when it comes to money,” Feylan continued. “Not too keen on minted coins. Now, if it was something natural like diamonds or rubies on the other hand, he’d be stuffin’ them down his pants and under his shako to be sure.”

  And back to private you go.

  The first soldier tried to get them back on point. “What I’m saying is, there’s treasure to be found out here. That library was just one spot, but there have to be others. Think about it. We’re going to this fort, right, and it sits on a hill overlooking a trading route. That means those elves have had time to do a little taxing of the merchants’ caravans in return for safe passage. Maybe gold coins, maybe diamonds and rubies. Whatever it is, it’s gotta be worth something. And if them elves ain’t there when we get there I say what’s the harm in snooping around a bit and seeing what we can scrounge?”

  Konowa really couldn’t argue with that logic. The life of a soldier in the Calahrian Army was damn hard. Out here it was closer to a nightmare. If his elves had padded their meager pay with a few bribes here and there he wouldn’t judge them any the worse for it. They’d been dealt a crappy hand through no fault of their own. Getting a little something back seemed only natural. It made perfect sense to Konowa, yet deep down it filled him with unease. Deep, deep down, he hoped it wasn’t true.

  The wagon found another rut jolting Konowa forward and back. If the conversation behind continued he could no longer hear it. He gave up trying to listen and shook himself upright while shedding drifts of snow from the folds in his robe. Brushing off more of it he noticed the flakes felt drier and colder than before. He rubbed a few flakes between his finger and thumb and immediately regretted it.

  “Son of a witch,” he muttered, twisting his head to free his mouth from his makeshift scarf. He brought his stinging fingers to his lips and blew on the skin. When he pulled his hand back bright red drops of blood beaded on the pads of his finger and thumb from several small cuts.

  “It’s more ice than snow,” he said, turning to Rallie.

  She pushed the hood of her robe back far enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. A black cigar dangled from her lips, the end of the cigar burning bright orange in the night. “It’s worse than you think. This snow springs from the heart of Her forest. It’s tainted with metal ore. She failed in Her first attempt to plant Her forest here, so now she’s preparing the ground for another try.”

  Konowa lifted his head and stuck out his tongue. The bitter tang of metal made him grimace.

  “She’ll kill everything,” he said, sitting back down. He’d always believed the Shadow Monarch was mad, but in a controlled, specific way. The enormity of what She was attempting left him weak. “Rallie, She really is insane. She’s planning to destroy the entire world.”

  Rallie’s cigar burned brighter as she took several puffs before answering. Her words flowed out with a stream of smoke. “I suspect that in Her mind this makes perfect sense. A world populated with nothing but sarka har, their roots ripping into the foundations of all the lands until everything is black forest. It’s certainly not what most of us would consider an improvement, but She is working at a distinct disadvantage,” she said, pointing to her head.

  Konowa turned to stare straight ahead, hunching his shoulders against the cold. “And all because of the Wolf Oaks and the stupid need of my people to find a ryk faurre. Nature was doing just fine before we came along. All of this could have been avoided if we’d left well enough alone.”

  “That’s a rather harsh assessment, don’t you think?” Rallie asked.

  “Harsh? Look around us. Rallie, it’s snowing metal. Forests of sarka har are sprouting up everywhere, some of the buggers have even learned to walk, and we’re bound by an oath trapping us in shadow for eternity. No, I don’t think I’m being harsh enough. And when we get to Her mountain this all comes to an end.”

  “So you really do intend to kill Her then?” The tone in Rallie’s voice was measured, but Konowa knew an accusation when he heard one.

  “Rallie, Her crystal ball is cracked. You said so yourself. She’s already killed thousands, and for what? So some possibly sentient tree even more twisted than Her will have a lovely little place in the sun to spread its leaves? She’s a poison that needs to be eradicated before She can do any more damage.”

  Rallie turned to look at him. Her eyes shouldn’t have shone that brightly from beneath her cloak. “I don’t dispute for a moment the horrors She has unleashed, but when the time comes, don’t forget that unlike Her you have choices. She cared for something so deeply that She lost Herself in it. Surely you can understand that.”

  Konowa sat back a little from Rallie. “It’s not the same. All I’ve ever tried to do is what’s right. And look at what I’ve lost because of Her.” He realized his hand had come up to rub the tip of his ruined ear and he quickly brought it
back down. “After what we’ve all lost? No, Rallie, there is only one choice before me.”

  “You mean like at Luuguth Jor when you could have broken the oath?”

  Konowa choked back what he was going to say next. He hated that Rallie was able to make something so simple and clear significantly more complicated just by asking questions.

  “Life is messy, Major. We fool ourselves at our great peril if we think otherwise.”

  “If She doesn’t die, how does any of this end?” Konowa finally asked, surprised that he was even considering the possibility.

  “I assure you I haven’t the foggiest,” Rallie said, turning to face forward again. “But it’ll be most interesting to find out.”

  Konowa waited to hear if she had more to add, but judging by the cloud of cigar smoke pouring out from her cloak it was clear she was done talking. The wind picked up, knifing its way through gaps in his robe. Cursing softly, he hunched in on himself to find some warmth. His eyelids closed of their own volition and he began to drift into sleep. He found some small comfort in the fact that with the winter storm still blowing and the horror of the walking sarka har now behind them, the regiment was slightly safer from attack. With the current state of the world, Konowa viewed that as a major accomplishment.

  The creature that had once been the man Faltinald Elkhart Gwyn, Viceroy of the Protectorate of Greater Elfkyna, and until a few hours ago the Shadow Monarch’s Emissary, struggled to hold on to its sense of being. It moved across the windswept desert, oblivious to the falling snow and the chilling cold.

  Its thoughts, once sharp and precise, now spun about a wobbling axis of rage and agony. Were it to rest for even a moment it feared it would simply cease to exist, its energy scattered to the far reaches of the world. Even now, precious fragments of memory and personality crumbled and were lost.