by Chris Evans
A flying tree in the shape of a dragon. His mind refused to accept it even as something deeper and more instinctual in him understood the horror approaching and sparked every fiber in his body to move.
“What is it with these damn trees?!” he shouted. He jumped to his feet as his fear gave energy to his anger. His understanding of the world kept shifting under his feet. The transformed sarka har flew in low over the column, dipping its front branch laced with thick, sharp spikes. Three soldiers dove out of the way, but a fourth wasn’t as lucky and was impaled through the shoulder.
The sarka har flew up until Konowa could barely see it. He followed its movement by the screams of the soldier. When the pitch of the screams changed Konowa knew the tree had let go. A moment later the soldier fell in a blur to impact onto the road with a sickening thud. Konowa didn’t bother to wait to see his shade appear, but said a silent good-bye to another Private Grostril, whoever this one might be.
“Rallie, are you okay?” he asked, remembering the scribe and turning to check on her. She was already sitting up and had her quill and the scroll of paper in her lap. Konowa felt relief flood through him to be replaced by a cold emptiness a moment later when she began cursing and tossed the scroll away.
“It’s too wet. The ink just smears and won’t hold its shape,” she said, climbing to her feet. She still clenched a cigar in her mouth, the tip of it burning like a smithy’s forge. “My fault entirely for not giving you fair warning, but time was working against us.”
“Isn’t it always,” Konowa said, drawing his saber. “Stay low and try not to move.”
“Go, I’ll be fine,” she said.
Konowa turned and ran onto the road, shouting to the soldiers around him. “Stay low! Load your weapons and fix bayonets, but hold your fire until I give the command.”
A piece of wing from a shako fluttered down to land by his boots. He looked up and saw the two sarka har circling overhead.
“What in the blue heavens are those?” Viceroy Alstonfar said, trotting up to Konowa with something close to glee in his voice.
“Dead in another minute,” Konowa barked, spying RSM Aguom ten yards away rounding up more troops. “Have you seen Private Renwar? We need those damn shades and we need them now!”
Aguom shrugged his shoulders. “No, but I’ll find him!”
Konowa slashed his saber in the air. “Send someone. You stay here and get the troops organized. We’re going to fire a volley straight up at the things and knock them out of the sky.”
“Yes, sir,” Aguom shouted back.
Konowa turned and saw the Viceroy was still standing beside him. “You should find a place to hide, Viceroy, the road is not safe.”
“I’m not sure the surrounding desert offers any better cover. Better to stay among the column and be one of many than off by myself I think.”
The logic of it made Konowa pause. “Where’s the Prince?”
Pimmer’s face turned a ghostly white. “Mercy, in all the hubbub, I forgot all about him! The future king and I left him alone!”
“We’ll find him,” Konowa said, not caring a whit if they did or not at the moment. “Right now we have more pressing duties.” Turning, he marched over to a group of Iron Elves and crouched down on the road beside them. “Just like before, only we’ll be shooting up. On the next pass we’ll shoot at the first one that comes.”
“But Major, what are those things?” a soldier asked.
“Dead in another minute,” Viceroy Alstonfar said, coming up to crouch beside Konowa. “Listen to the major and follow his lead and you’ll all be fine.”
Konowa twisted on the soles of his boots to get a look at the Viceroy. The diplomat met his gaze and gave him a big smile followed by a wink. Konowa decided, barely, that he didn’t want to make a habit of killing viceroys.
“Nicely put,” he finally said, spinning back to face his men.
“Good to keep the men’s spirits up,” Pimmer said, reaching out and patting Konowa on the back before quickly removing his hand as frost fire crackled to life and stung his bare flesh.
“They’re coming!”
Snow swirled and buffeted into trailing vortexes behind the wings of the sarka har as they dove. The column lay spread out and vulnerable.
Each tree lowered its jawlike branch. Wicked-looking thorns gleamed like saliva on wet teeth. More thorns sprouted at the end of branches now shaped like claws.
Several soldiers started to get up to run.
“Hold your ground!” Konowa shouted. “You’re not chickens being chased by a hawk. You’re Calahria’s finest. On my command you will fire and you will knock those bloody trees out of the sky. Is that clear?”
The responding “yes, sir” wasn’t as enthusiastic as Konowa would have liked, but it would do. The men were back under control.
“RSM, did you hear that?” Konowa said, looking over toward the group of soldiers ten yards away.
Aguom waved. The whites of his eyes were visible, but his voice remained rock solid. “We’re ready, Major, just say the word.”
Konowa stood up and walked down the road so that he was just in front of the massing soldiers. He stopped where Rallie’s wayward wagon wheel now stood forlornly upright, completely undamaged. He turned briefly to look as many in the eyes as he could before spinning abruptly and facing the sarka har.
He felt naked in the cold. Every survival instinct told him to run, but he ignored them. Other instincts came to the fore, whispering in his ear to jump into the air and tear the trees apart with his hands and teeth. He settled on something between the two and raised his saber high into the air.
“Ready . . .”
Soldiers ground their knees a little deeper into the snow to steady themselves. In all their training they’d never practiced shooting up into the sky. Several wound up with bloody knees as they pressed hard enough to reach the gravel of the roadway itself. An enterprising few rested the barrel of their musket on the shoulder of the soldier in front of them while three chose to lay flat on their backs and use the very ground itself as a means of steadying their aim.
Unaware or uncaring of the reception that awaited them, the sarka har dove. Each tucked in their branch-and-leaf wings with a grating shriek and steepened their dive. A high-pitched whistling began to build, cutting through the wind and the shouting.
Konowa tapped into his anger and forced the frost fire to light his blade. He had no illusions that it would make one bit of difference against these monsters, but he had another motive. “On my command, shoot above the tip of my saber, men, and not a moment before. We’ll get one chance at this, so make it count.” He could have left it at that, probably should have, but in a night that seemed destined to be his last, he needed to say more. “Remember, shoot just above the saber, not below. I’ve already had one ear tip trimmed, I don’t need a matching set!”
Konowa’s own laughter filled his ears making it difficult to tell whether anyone else had joined in. Above, the sarka har angled their approach and now lined up one behind the other.
They were diving directly at him.
“Aim . . .”
Prayers, curses, and possibly even a song rose from the ranks. No matter where a soldier kneeled or lay it looked like the wooden dragons were diving straight at them. More than a few hands trembled, and at least two soldiers had left their ramrods sticking in the barrels of their muskets, but be they terrified or simply scared, they held their ground and took aim.
Still a hundred yards away and forty yards high, the lead sarka har thrust out its wings with a crack like a cannon shot, slowing its descent. The sarka har behind it followed suit. A moment later each had lowered its thorn-lined branch in preparation of a raking run along the column.
Konowa filled his lungs with air and opened his eyes wide. Whatever was about to happen, he wasn’t going to miss it. He sighted along the edge of his saber blade and squeezed the pommel until he was sure he would crush it.
The lead monster fille
d Konowa’s sky above his saber as the sarka har hurtled downward to ten yards away.
“Fire!”
The massed musket fire of the regiment lit up the night. Thunder and smoke rolled over Konowa as the volley snapped forth like iron rain. Musket balls whizzed above his head, one even grazing his outstretched saber blade setting the lead ball ablaze with black flame. The lead sarka har took the full brunt of the volley. Its wings shredded as the musket balls tore it apart while its trunk shattered into splinters as the shots carved through it. It exploded in a searing flash, scattering chunks of flaming debris outward as it continued its dive toward the ground.
And Konowa.
Konowa never considered joining the artillery. To be an officer in that branch of the service meant having a superior understanding of mathematics and physics, especially the calculation of such bizarre, finicky notions as velocity and trajectory. He didn’t have the head for that kind of thing. Just how much he didn’t was now hurtling toward him as an expanding fireball.
“Son of a—” was as far he got, not out of any sense of sudden decorum, but on account of the wind being knocked from his lungs. The flaming pieces of the sarka har crashed into the road three feet in front of Konowa and bounced. A six-foot section slammed into the wagon wheel in front of him which, while saving his life, still hit him at a high rate of speed. The world as he knew it vanished in a tornado of bright and dark, fire and ice.
And then he was floating. Blood pounded in his ears and every joint, muscle, and bone in his body felt pulverized. The wind tore at his uniform and he became conscious that he was trying and failing to get air into his lungs. He convulsed and a gulp of frigid air plunged down his throat, snapping open his eyes.
Sounds and sensations flooded back. He could see the flaming wreckage of the first sarka har on the road thirty feet below. He couldn’t see the second.
Konowa became aware of a rhythmic creaking and turned his head just enough to catch the up and down beat of a large wooden wing. As his head cleared, the scope of just how much he hadn’t thought through where to stand hit him. He was hanging by the waist, probably from his leather belt by the feel of his stomach, facing downward, which meant the second sarka har was directly above.
The shouts of the soldiers below began to make it through to his brain.
“Jump, Major, jump!”
“The snow will break your fall!”
“Jump!”
The sarka har lurched and Konowa experienced a feeling of momentary weightlessness. He twisted his body so that he could get a better look at the sarka har. For the second time that night he wished he hadn’t.
The bloody thing was on fire.
The urgent shouts for him to jump rang clear in his ears. He fumbled madly for his belt buckle and began thrashing at the branches that he was tangled up in. The sarka har didn’t appear to know he was there as it was having an increasingly difficult time staying airborne. With his back now to the earth below, Konowa couldn’t see how high they were off the ground, but the rushing wind in his ears and rising emptiness in his stomach told him it was getting closer.
He swung his fists against the branches and with a loud snap he was free and falling. He spun as he dropped and saw a snowdrift rushing up to him as he completed two and a half revolutions. He missed the snowbank by a good six feet, careened off a camel—dead or alive he couldn’t tell, they all smelled the same—and skipped off the ground four times in a succession of geysers of snow before sliding to a gentle stop flat on his back.
Time didn’t stand still so much as avert its eyes. Konowa was aware he wasn’t breathing, but he couldn’t tell if it was because he was dead, or that he’d momentarily forgot how. He suspected he was still alive.
“Bloody hell!”
Pain registered in overlapping waves that threatened to take his breath away again. He tried to lift his head and immediately regretted it.
“. . . bloody hell . . .”
A rumbling explosion marked the demise of the second sarka har somewhere off to his left. He smiled, hoping it hurt as much as he did. A sweaty face appeared above him and it took a moment for its features to swim into view before they promptly went the other way into a throbbing blur.
“Major! That was magnificent! I can safely say in all my years serving in the diplomatic corps I have never seen anything that could come close in sheer spectacle,” the Viceroy said, his evident cheer just one more pain for Konowa to bear.
Konowa managed to curl a finger of his right hand and motioned for the Viceroy to come closer. He needed to be quick. His vision was graying around the edges and his body was slipping into a euphoric numbness he recognized as impending unconsciousness.
The Viceroy leaned in and turned his ear to Konowa’s lips. Konowa spoke, though his words were little more than a whisper. The light was fading fast, but he had to tell someone one more time in case these were his last words
Soldiers rushed up to stand around. RSM Aguom arrived a moment later and knelt down on the other side of him. “What did he say, Viceroy?”
Viceroy Alstonfar looked up with pursed lips before responding. Before he could say anything, Konowa rallied enough to say it himself.
“Whatever you do . . . if there are any ashes left of me . . . don’t put them in a damn wooden box.”
Visyna pulled her hair back and tied it in ponytail, carefully brushing back every wet strand matted to her forehead. Her hands only shook a little. She hadn’t had a drink of water in hours, and hadn’t slept in well over a day, but it was more than that. She didn’t need her weaving to know that blood was going to spill. With each step they took in the company of Kritton and the disgraced elves, a reckoning loomed.
“They’re going to kill us,” she whispered to Chayii, turning her head slightly to watch the elf’s reaction.
Chayii kept walking, her left hand gently stroking the fur on Jir’s head as he padded beside her. “They have strayed far from their upbringing. Kritton is a foul influence on them, and I fear that his taint is every bit as toxic as the Shadow Monarch’s.”
The procession suddenly ground to a halt. Visyna stood on the balls of her feet, her hands by her sides. She didn’t know what to expect, but feared the worst.
“We’ll rest for ten minutes, no more!” Kritton shouted from further up the tunnel.
The prisoners collapsed to the sandy floor. Visyna was tempted to join them, but she couldn’t rest. Their very lives were at stake.
“What are you doing, my child?” Chayii asked, easing herself into a sitting position against one wall. Jir sank down onto his belly and rested his head in her lap and closed his eyes.
“I don’t know . . .” she said, letting the thought trail off as she moved up the tunnel.
She was surprised she didn’t bump into an elf right away, but they had stayed as far away from the prisoners as possible. After all, it wasn’t as if they could run anywhere down here. Still, perhaps there was something to that. Had Kritton warned them to stay back? But why? She was still pondering that when a bayonet loomed out of the shadows and pointed straight at her stomach. She froze, following the steel back to the musket and the elf holding it.
“Get back with the others.”
Visyna stood her ground. “I’m just stretching my legs,” she lied, cringing as soon as she said it. They had been marching forever, who could possibly need to stretch their legs?
The bayonet retreated as the elf pulled his musket in closer to his body, but kept the weapon pointed at her. He stepped forward until he was three feet away. “He said to watch out for you, that you couldn’t be trusted,” the elf said.
Visyna offered the elf a sad smile. Kritton would distrust her, and with good reason. Still, in the dim light, this elf looked more like a beggar who needed help than a killer disciple of a traitor. The soldier’s cheeks were gaunt and his eyes blinked slowly, as if he was just waking up. His uniform was a patchwork of inexpert repairs. Several buttons had been replaced by bits of wood, an
d most shockingly, his bayonet had rust on it. She had been around the Iron Elves long enough to know a soldier’s first duty was to keep his weapon in perfect working order.
“He told me you were the best soldiers in the Empire,” Visyna said, giving her voice a soft, maternal lilt. “He told me that when we found you, everything would be right again.”
The elf blinked and took a hand off his musket. “Corporal Kritton said that?”
“Major Swift Dragon said that.”
At the mention of Konowa’s name, the elf stood up straight and he brought his free hand back down to grip his musket. “Do not mention his name,” the elf hissed between clenched teeth. His eyes were now wide open. “He destroyed us.”
Visyna stepped back a pace, shocked at the vehemence in the elf. “He feels terrible about what happened, but surely you know he did it with the best of intentions. The Viceroy was in league with—”
The bayonet shot forward and came to rest directly under her chin.
“If you mention his name again, I will gut you,” the elf said. Spittle frothed at the corners of his mouth and his hands shook. Visyna could only stare into his unblinking eyes. She was face-to-face with an elf every bit as lost as the dïova gruss, elves turned mad by their bond with a Silver Wolf Oak like Tyul . . . and the Shadow Monarch.
After what seemed like an eternity, the elf lowered his bayonet and turned and walked further up the tunnel, leaving Visyna alone and shaken. She wanted to feel sympathy for the elf, but her overwhelming reaction was one of concern for Konowa. His elves hate him. He’ll be devastated. As she collected herself, she realized she wasn’t grasping the bigger picture. They wanted to kill him.
She turned and trudged back toward the group and found an empty section of wall to sit down against. A shadow loomed over Visyna and she brought up her hands, prepared to try to weave, but instead of a bayonet there was a goat-hide water skin being held out to her. She blinked and brushed the hair from her face.
