Ashes of a Black Frost

by Chris Evans

  “It’s not that simple, Rallie,” Alwyn said.

  “That’s the human mind for you, always trying to show how complicated things can be. Don’t think about it, just feel it. Better to do something and fail, than nothing and wonder.”

  For the first time in a long time, it was as if a dark, smothering veil had been lifted from his face. Thinking about his situation only made it worse. So maybe Rallie had a point. Stop thinking and start acting. Alwyn drew in a breath and planted his legs firmly in the snow. Rallie stopped and turned to look at him, a smile apparent behind the glowing end of her cigar.

  His heart filled with emotion, not all of it sad. There was a way forward. How it would all work out he didn’t know, but right now that didn’t matter. Right now he was alive, and that was enough.

  “I miss Yimt,” he said at last, unsure what else to say.

  “I miss the rascal, too,” she said, “but I hate to think what he’d be saying to you if he were here instead of me right now. I’m not sure ears as tender as yours could survive being exposed to that kind of verbal abuse.”

  Alwyn actually smiled.

  She started walking again. He matched her step for step, marveling at how his view of the world could change so fast.

  “You never answered my question,” he said. “You know, who are you?”

  “I didn’t answer only because I don’t mean to,” she said, cheerily puffing away on her cigar. “A woman is entitled to her secrets, especially if she can’t remember some of them.”

  Alwyn didn’t believe that.

  “Eventually you have to tell us,” he paused before continuing. “Don’t you?”

  “Do you know what kills cats?” Rallie asked.

  “Curiosity?” Alwyn answered.

  “Not really. It’s usually the horse and buggy that runs them over because they thought they heard a lot of mice scurrying on the road.”

  “I’m not sure, but I think that means I should change the subject,” Alwyn said.

  She stopped again. A feeling of dread came over Alwyn. Shades of the dead materialized all around him. He shuddered, but steeled himself. He might be their spokesman, but he wasn’t dead. Not yet.

  “It’s just been changed for you. There’s the fort,” Rallie said.

  Alwyn looked. The hill jutted out of the desert like a broken bone, the jagged top the battlements of the fort. Letting his gaze fall he took in the base of the hill, searching the snow-covered debris for signs of life.

  “Are those rakkes?” he asked, spotting bodies spread out in front of the hill.

  “They were,” Rallie said.

  He tore his gaze away from the hill and focused instead on the shades of the fallen. Their hands started to reach for him and the cold, unending pressure of their agony began to gnaw at him from the inside. His mood darkened, and the warm feeling he’d had from the playful banter with Rallie began to retreat, but then he felt the tattoo on his arm begin to burn hotter, as if a fire were being stoked. It was little more than a single match in a blizzard, but it was enough for him to remember that he could still make choices.

  He stood to his full height, the charred and blackened branches of his wooden leg creaking with the effort. “Go. Seek out our enemies. Now!”

  The shades didn’t move.

  “Try again,” Rallie said.

  Alwyn looked at the shades. He felt the anger well up inside him. They were soldiers, damn it, and they had a duty to perform. “The regiment needs you. You are still part of it. Remember that,” Alwyn said.

  The shades continued to stand their ground. RSM Lorian rode forth on Zwindarra until he was only a few feet away. “Our pain in this existence grows, yet we appear no closer to our goal.”

  Rallie started to step forward, but Alwyn held up his hand to stop her. This time, he let his anger boil forth.

  “RSM! You know better. You all know better. We’re soldiers. We fight until the battle is won, and this battle is far from over.” He stepped forth and placed his hands on his hips. “You weren’t cowards in life. Being dead changes nothing. Remember who you are,” Alwyn said, pointing to individual soldiers. “You, and you, and you . . . you’re Iron Elves. Live up to that name!”

  The air around them crackled as the temperature fell. Alwyn’s breath misted and his lungs burned with the cold. The shades of the Iron Elves grew straighter in front of his eyes. He blinked. They were standing at attention. A moment later, they vanished. Alwyn waited several seconds before letting out his breath.

  “Now that’s something Yimt would have been damn proud of,” Rallie said, whistling softly.

  “I thought I went too far,” Alwyn said.

  “So did I, my boy, so did I. Remind me never to play poker with you.”

  The sound of crunching snow preceded acting-RSM Aguom as he marched up to stand a few feet away. Alwyn remembered that he was still a member of Her Majesty’s Imperial Armed Forces and turned and stood to attention.

  “Stand easy,” Aguom said, looking around nervously. He pointed toward the hill. “Was there a battle here?” he asked, taking in the carnage before them.

  “Something like that,” Rallie said.

  Aguom looked like he wanted more of an explanation, but let it go at that. “Lieutenant Imba wants to know what the situation is. He’s preparing the regiment to advance in line. Should they fix bayonets?”

  “Yes,” Alwyn said.

  “Do you sense something?” he asked.

  Alwyn closed his eyes and rested his chin against his chest. The wind played with the edge of his caerna, but the sting of the icy snow against his one good leg barely registered. Something darker and colder had his attention.

  “What is it?” Rallie asked. Alwyn heard a rustle of paper and knew she had a scroll in her hand, her quill at the ready.

  “The shades have found our enemy,” he said, opening his eyes as he raised his head. “Hundreds upon hundreds of rakkes in one mass.”

  “What, where?” Aguom asked. “We slaughtered hundreds at the canyon. The rest scattered to the four winds. How can they be gathered up into a force again so quickly?”

  “They are driven by Her Emissary. Its power was not destroyed.”

  “But you killed it. We saw you tear it to bits,” Aguom said. “How could anything survive that?”

  “Madness,” Alwyn said, seeing the path that he might one day walk himself.

  RSM Aguom recovered quickly. “No time to waste then, we’ll double time it to the fort and set up our defenses. Once we’re in there we’ll be able to hold them off.”

  “I’m afraid we won’t be going to the fort,” Alwyn said.

  A howl carried on the wind from somewhere off to the west. It was answered by several more to the east.

  “We are already surrounded.”

  Konowa found Pimmer twenty yards inside the tunnel leading from the outer wall of the fort. Despite being out of the wind and snow the man appeared to be shivering. He was standing just inside a chamber. The glow from his small storm lantern cast enough light that Konowa could make out the figures of the soldiers all grouped against the wall nearby. After the horror he’d just witnessed he was feeling helpless and angry and seeing his men not spread out and ready to face danger gave him the perfect chance to vent.

  He strode into the room, the first curse ready to be whispered with force at such a complete breakdown of discipline. Then he saw what had stopped the men in their tracks.

  “This was the garrison’s torture chamber,” Pimmer said, his voice flat.

  Konowa took it all in in an instant. The chains, the metal spikes, blood-and-gore-stained walls, and the smell of death. It threatened to overwhelm him. His senses were still reeling from the tableau on the slope outside the fort. He looked at his men and saw they were on the verge of cracking. He didn’t blame them, but this was no time for sympathy and understanding. They could be moments away from battle with who knew what. He had to snap them out of it, and fast.

  “Of course
it’s their torture chamber,” Konowa snapped, reaching down and picking up a metal device that looked like it might have been used for boring holes in bone. “What did you expect, a barracks with warm sheets and a hearth? Maybe a nice little tavern with drinks and a chatty barmaid?”

  Some of the soldiers shuffled their feet. Others looked at him then looked away. Pimmer blinked and looked surprised. “Major, I just meant that—”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Konowa said, cutting him. He could deal with hurt feelings later. Right now he had to get his men focused on the task at hand. “And what in blazes are you lot doing there gawking? You should know by now that monsters come in all shapes and sizes.” He whirled on Feylan. “Feylan! If you want those corporal stripes, you’d better start acting like one. We still have no idea who or what is in here with us. If you can’t get the men together and prepared to fight when I’m not here to watch then maybe you’re not the leader I thought you were.”

  Feylan’s face grew red as the insult stung, but it had the desired effect.

  “You heard the major,” Feylan called out, batting at the shoulder of the soldier nearest to him. “Smirck, Meswiz, Rasser, get across the room and cover that doorway. Dimwhol, watch the way we came in. We don’t want something sneaking up on us from behind. The rest of you grab a brand and light it then keep your eyes and ears peeled.”

  Konowa nodded as the soldiers hurried to obey. In moments, the chamber was filled with warm, yellow light. “Viceroy, there’s nothing here for us. Let’s get upstairs and find out if anyone’s home.”

  Pimmer looked down at his map then back at Konowa. “Yes, quite right.” He took a breath and stood up a little straighter. “Right. Through that door, gentlemen, and up those stairs will take us to an entrance onto the main courtyard of the fort.”

  “Good, good. Now listen, all of you,” Konowa said. He expected all eyes on him, but instead several were nervously staring at the torture device he still held in his hand. He bent down and placed it on the floor, wiping his hands on his trousers as he stood back up. “Look, we’ve made it this far. We lost a good man, but the rest of you pulled through, and that’s pretty bloody amazing. None of us expected what we found out there, or in here, but you’ve handled yourselves well. I’m damn proud of you.”

  Konowa kept his face neutral, but allowed himself a sense of satisfaction as his words worked their magic. The soldiers before him grew bigger before his eyes. Chests expanded, chins jutted, shoulders rolled, and spines lengthened. Their demeanor changed into something more like the battle-hardened warriors they knew themselves to be.

  “All of you,” Konowa added, looking straight at Pimmer when he said it. Konowa worried buttons would start flying about the room if the diplomat’s chest swelled anymore, so he turned back to his men. “But we’re not into the woods yet.” He paused as he realized he’d used one of his father’s old expressions. For humans and dwarves, they felt safe once they were out of the forest. Elves, naturally, felt the opposite. What surprised Konowa was that he should feel that. He looked around the room they were standing in and decided perhaps it wasn’t that surprising after all. Almost any forest would be preferable to this.

  “I’ll take the lead,” Private Feylan said, moving toward the doorway.

  “Private Smirck can handle this,” Konowa said, drawing his saber. Feylan looked disappointed, but Konowa knew he’d get over it. The young soldier had proven his mettle more than enough. If he kept volunteering he’d eventually do himself into an early grave. “Slow and easy, Smirck. We still don’t know who, if anyone, is in here with us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Smirck said. He turned and faced the doorway head on. He rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, ran a finger along the edge of the bayonet attached to his musket, then eased himself forward as if a rope were tied to his waist pulling him backward.

  Konowa let two more soldiers follow then fell in behind them, confident the rest would fall in behind him. No one would linger in that room. He started climbing and realized at once that the stairway had been carved out of the rock with the same lack of attention to detail as the one outside the fort. No two steps rose at the same height, making their progress a jarring one. Bayonet’s scrapped against the rock walls spraying sparks of black frost. Someone behind him tripped, which set off a chain of muttered curses.

  “Terribly sorry,” Pimmer whispered. “Bit hard to see in here. These brands seem better at casting shadow than they do light.”

  Konowa inwardly groaned. He counted to five and let the curse on his lips fade. Best to just keep moving and get to the top of the steps as quickly as possible. He pushed his senses outward and tried to determine if anything was waiting for them once they reached the top. He couldn’t detect anything. He was mostly relieved, but disappointed, too.

  The soldier in front of Konowa stopped moving. He looked over his shoulder at Konowa and pointed forward. Konowa moved up and around him, losing a good chunk of his Hasshugeb robe on the end of the man’s bayonet in the process. It was an even tighter squeeze to get past the next soldier and Konowa felt a momentary panic of being trapped under all this rock, and then he was past him and the feeling retreated. He reached Smirck who was crouched down with his ear pressed against the keyhole in a wooden door at the top of the stairs.

  Despite feeling no warning of danger, Konowa waited until Smirck rose and gave the thumbs-up. It never hurt for a second opinion. He patted the soldier on the back and Smirck reached out and pushed against the door. It didn’t budge. He turned to his left and put his shoulder to it.

  “Push,” Konowa whispered.

  “I am pushing . . . sir,” Smirck grunted, his voice straining.

  “Let me at it,” Konowa said, grabbing Smirck by the belt and pulling him back from the door. Squeezing around him, Konowa looked the door over, wondering if there was another latch or bolt somewhere keeping it in place. A horrible thought came to him. The door was bolted and locked on the other side. Konowa’s stomach sank. How could he have been so stupid? Of course doors would be locked, especially those leading to torture chambers.

  Furious at himself, he leaned against the door and pushed with all his might. It didn’t even budge. He stepped back and looked down at the keyhole again. It was a simple iron plate, perhaps three inches by five inches, bolted into the wood of the door, with a narrow slot for a key. Assuming there weren’t additional bolts holding the door secure on the other side, a competent locksmith should be able to open it in under a minute. Konowa didn’t know any locksmiths, but he knew someone even better.

  “You ever do any robbery in your younger days, Smirck?” Konowa asked.

  Smirck had the decency not to look offended. “I thought of that, too, sir, but I just used to roll drunks in the alley behind the pub. Couldn’t pick a lock if I had a key, but I think Dimwhol used to be a second-story man.” He turned to the soldier behind him. “Ask Dimmy if he can pick a lock.”

  The message was relayed down the stairs. A minute later hushed whispers rose back up toward Konowa. Smirck listened and then turned to relay the information. Konowa could tell by the look on his face it wasn’t good news. “Sorry, sir, says that was his father, but, um, we do have a master lock pick with us.”

  Konowa brightened. “Well get him up here, now. It’s a tight fit but he can squeeze by.”

  “I don’t think so . . .”

  Konowa sagged against the door. Of course the Viceroy can pick locks. He’s a diplomat. He’s probably versed in all manner of subterfuge and skulduggery. And he was now at the end of their column on the stairs.

  “Are you okay, Major?” Smirck asked.

  Konowa tried counting to five again. It didn’t help. He stood up and away from the door. “Tell everyone to get ready.” With that he turned and faced the doorway. Black flames danced along the edge of his saber and frost crinkled beneath his boots. He drew back his hand, fixed his gaze on the lock, and thrust his saber forward.

  The door swung open befo
re his blade hit the lock. Konowa tumbled forward to sprawl face down on the stone pavers. The sound of his saber clattering on the stone echoed around him. His shako rolled along the ground, the last portions of the wings falling off in a cloud of feathers. The shako came to an abrupt halt against the toe of a boot. Konowa scrambled to his feet.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Konowa could make out two elves standing ten feet away, one crouching behind the other. They were backlit by the falling snow so that their faces were in shadow, but the pointy ears were a dead giveaway.

  The one in front held a bow and arrow pointed directly at Konowa’s heart. The bow was at full draw and the elf’s hands were rock steady. He was dressed in what appeared to be palm leaves, twigs, weeds, and other natural litter to be found in the desert. Konowa knew Her dark elves chose to garb themselves in leaves and other material harvested from the sarka har, but he couldn’t recall seeing any dressed like this.

  Konowa reluctantly took his eyes off the arrow still pointed at him and assessed the other elf. Unlike his partner, this one wore robes of the Hasshugeb tribes and was currently smoothing nonexistent whiskers on his face.

  “Father?” Konowa said, not trusting his eyes.

  Standing before him and finally transformed back to elf form from that of a squirrel, Jurwan Leaf Talker continued to work at whiskers no longer there. “What . . . how did you get here? You’re elf again? What happened?” He heard boots on the stairs behind him stepping out into the courtyard and held up his hand toward the other elf. “Easy, lad, easy. Tyul, right?” he said. “Nothing to worry about, we’re friends. You remember us, right? We were on the big boat together. I’m his son, Konowa. Father, tell him to put down the bow.”

  The bow remained at full draw, the arrow unwaveringly fixed on Konowa’s chest. The muzzles of muskets slid into his field of vision on either side of him as his soldiers took aim.

  “Father, time to climb down from the tree and be an elf again. Tell him to lower his damn bow. Now!” Jurwan blinked and then bolted for a nearby ladder leading up to a wooden walkway that went all the way around the inside of the fort a few feet below the parapet. He was up it in a flash and gone from sight.