by Chris Evans
“You can’t understand what I feel,” the shade of Kritton said, moving forward so that it stood only a foot away. “You are not elf. You are not one of the tainted ones soiled by Her vile touch. You were not betrayed as I was.”
“This is not the time or the place to discuss betrayal, Kritton,” Alwyn said, finding it easier now in the face of Kritton’s anger to exert his own power. “You are bound by the oath as we all are. You have no choice.”
“You lie! I hear it in your voice. I do have a choice. I may not have the power, but I have the choice. You yourself tried to break Her oath. Yes . . . I feel this.”
Alwyn focused on Kritton. Power arced between them in ugly barbs of harsh light. Kritton’s shade began to scream. It flailed and tried to break free, but it was no match for Alwyn.
“Stand and fight with the others. You know this is our duty. We are all soldiers of the Iron Elves. Forget the oath that cursed us and remember the one you made with the regiment. All of us must fight.”
“I do not accept that!”
Alwyn raised his hand to strike Kritton down, then paused. He felt Rallie’s power being exerted to keep the rakkes at bay. The shades of the dead should have been more than sufficient to handle them, but they had fallen back and were no longer attacking. The living soldiers of the regiment were yelling and pleading for the shades to resume the battle, but the shades now refused to move. They were waiting for something.
They were . . . afraid.
“They do not want this fate any more than I do, any more than you do,” Kritton said. “And you know this.”
Alwyn thrust a hand and drove it into the heart of Kritton’s shade. He felt it scream as he closed his fingers tight. “You are right, Kritton, but I remind you again that we took the oath, and now we will see it through.” He released his grip and withdrew his hand. Kritton’s shade wavered and blurred before resuming its remembered shape of the elf.
Several shades drifted closer to the war of wills between Alwyn and Kritton. Would any of the other shades come to Kritton’s aid? Was their pain so unbearable that they would rather flee than fight?
Alwyn looked the dead in their eyes, steeling himself for the empty horror he saw there. “Our only chance is if we stick together as one. We are all Iron Elves, living and dead. There is no other way.”
The shades appeared to accept this, and a moment later a cheer went up from the regiment as they dead moved forward and began to attack again. Alwyn noted, however, that none ventured near the approach of the thing that had once been Her Emissary. The creature’s spiraling madness spread fear before it like a tornado.
“. . . the advantage is yours . . . for now,” Kritton said, moving off to join the other shades.
Alwyn watched it go, but knew he had bigger problems to deal with. Gwyn, though the thing drawing near no longer resembled the man in form or being, managed to hold some core of itself at the center of its own storm even as the rest of it was torn away.
Is this to be my destiny, too? Alwyn wondered. Will I become little more than a maddened collection of violence and death? He half-expected Rallie to appear at his side and tell him he was being foolish, but she was busy, and in the end, he still had a duty to perform. And that, he realized, was what would keep him sane. He was a soldier. He was an Iron Elf. As long as that was true, he could never become the monstrosity Gwyn had.
He adjusted his caerna and brought his hand up to adjust his spectacles, then remembered he no longer wore them. He brought his hand down and knocked on his wooden leg for luck, then limped forward to meet the threat.
“And how is this better than my plan?” Konowa whispered, scrambling over an ice-slicked rock and sliding down the other side to land awkwardly and fall to one knee before catching himself. “We’re still outside the walls risking life and limb.” He stood, brushed the snow off his trousers, and strode after Yimt. How the blazes does anyone with legs so short move so bloody fast? The dwarf had a knack for navigating among the tumbled rocks of Suhundam’s Hill like a mountain goat.
“Almost done, sir,” the dwarf said, easily bounding up and over another boulder. Yimt spooled out more twine from a bobbin slung from his belt. A continuous line now led all the way back to the secret entrance they had come through just a short twenty minutes before.
Konowa ignored the view from below as Yimt’s caerna blew in the wind, and instead marveled that he could move so nimbly after having been shot in the chest. Dwarves had a reputation for toughness, but just how tough Konowa had never fully appreciated. It was truly impressive.
“That’s how I feel,” Konowa said, letting gravity pull him the next few yards before digging his boot heels into the snow to slow himself down as another pile of rocks loomed before him.
“Think low and wide, Major,” Yimt whispered back over his shoulder. “The idea is to spread yourself out over a bigger area, and keep your body close to the ground. Makes a fellow more stable, especially a lanky one like you.”
“I’ll be low and wide and splattered all over these rocks if you don’t slow down,” Konowa grumbled. He finally gave in to his heaving lungs and stopped at the next boulder. Unlike the slow, tense climb up to the fort of a few hours ago, this descent was barely controlled chaos. Konowa’s body was now bruise on top of bruise. If he ever lay down he seriously wondered if he could haul himself back up again.
Yimt turned and trotted back up to where Konowa had halted. “Your orders, if you recall, sir, were to, and I quote, ‘get down the damn hill as fast as you can bloody well move.’ “
“Yes, you’re right,” Konowa managed, bending over double. His face was flushed and he’d already undone the top four buttons on his jacket despite the cold. He straightened back up and started to move off, but Yimt placed a strong hand on his arm and held him in place.
“If you don’t mind my saying, Major,” Yimt said, steering Konowa toward a small rock where he could sit down, “you haven’t really conquered the whole patience is a virtue thing.”
“They’re surrounded by rakkes out there,” Konowa said, struggling to get up from the rock and reluctantly giving into this body and allowing himself to rest for a moment. “Patience won’t do them any good if they’re dead.”
Yimt lowered his chin to his chest for a moment as if in deep thought. When he lifted it again he gave Konowa a look he’d never seen before. Konowa wasn’t looking at a sergeant in his regiment—it was the disgusted and disapproving face of a father.
“Then go, charge out there like a mad, brave fool and see what it gets you. You’re as worn out as a butterfly in a windstorm right now. You’re no good to anyone like this, least of all your missus.”
Missus . . . ? Konowa stood up though it was no easy feat. His thighs screamed and he almost tipped over. “You’re not out in the desert with two elves too far out on a branch. I’ll check the regs, but I’m fairly certain I’m still your commanding officer.” It was surreal to hear those words coming from his lips. It sounded precisely like something the Prince said, but maybe he was allowing his feeling for the troops to breed too much familiarity. He was their commanding officer, but the comradeship and friendship he felt with them, especially Yimt, blurred the lines.
“And while you’re at it, you can check my paybook. Do you know why I’ve been busted back down to private more times than a unicorn has virgins lining up to ride it?” Yimt asked, his voice taking on a hard edge. “I mean, besides the drinking and brawling and general disregard for military rules and discipline?”
Konowa said nothing, deciding a smart remark wasn’t needed at this juncture.
“Because I’ve saved more bloody officers from themselves than deserved it. Most of ’em didn’t even have the decency to give thanks. No, their egos were a little too bruised for that, so when I stopped a lieutenant from leading his company across the path of another regiment about to fire a volley I was brought up on charges of insubordination. And when I fired at a shrubbery that was hiding a band of archers and sprung
an ambush before we walked into it, a captain busted me for not maintaining fire discipline.”
“I’m not like that,” Konowa said, his feelings hurt that Yimt would lump him in with these other incompetent officers.
“No, Major,” Yimt said, “you’re worse. You really do care about the men, and yet you still charge hither, yon, and beyond, saber flashing, hair flowing, and setting an altogether bad example.”
“Bad example?” Konowa wasn’t standing for that. “The hell, you say! I lead from the front. I’ve never backed down from a fight.”
“Aye, and that’s an admirable quality in a soldier, but an officer also has to use his brain once in a while. What do you think all those young impressionable lads get in their heads when they see their officer deep in the thick of every fight? I’ll tell you what,” Yimt said, cutting off Konowa’s response. “They think they have to live up to your example, and so they start charging around like mad hatters, too. But here’s the thing—they ain’t you. Let’s face it, you ain’t you either. You’re banged up more than a round-heel on payday. But you’ve got the knack, same as me. The two of us get into trouble all on our own, but we figure a way to get back out again. We’ve both been shot at and hit, missed, and learned a few tricks. A lot of these lads, they don’t have what we have. They can get themselves into trouble, but getting out ain’t going to be as easy for them.”
This was something Konowa had never really thought about before. “But I can’t just sit back and watch. I’m not the Prince.”
Yimt shook his beard and snow fluttered to the ground. “A few weeks ago I would have said that was a good thing, but you know, that royal pain in the arse does use his gray matter. Oh sure, he’s got lofty plans, but I’ll be buggered if he hasn’t put a hell of a lot thought into each one. He thinks about what comes next. Probably learned it from his mum. You could learn from him. Think more than one step ahead. Remember, when you charge there are a lot of soldiers that are going to follow in your footsteps. Know where you’re leading them, and for that matter, know what you’re going to do when you get there.”
The nearby howl of rakkes reminded Konowa of the urgency of their task, but he held the urge to simply charge forward in check. “You know, for a loudmouthed, highly opinionated, rule-breaking malcontent, you offer some damn good advice.”
Yimt’s metal-stained teeth flashed in the night. “And you’re not the dandiest, wouldn’t-know-his-arse-from-a-hole-in-the-ground officer I’ve ever met . . . though you do vie for that distinction at times.”
“Let’s just pretend that was a compliment and get on with it.”
Yimt motioned with his thumb. “Just waiting for you to catch your breath, Major. Got three more of the sorry things right here.”
Konowa looked and saw three rakke bodies now half covered in snow. “They piled the things everywhere.” He stood up and walked over to the bodies, using his boot to kick off the snow from each one. Grunting with the effort, he then propped each frozen corpse into as close to a standing position as he could manage as Yimt piled some rocks around them to keep them in place. His hands stung as he handled the snow-crusted rakkes, but there was nothing for it. An uneasy feeling washed over him as he realized he was doing something very similar with the bodies of the rakkes that his elves had done.
“This ain’t the same thing,” Yimt said as if reading his thoughts. “We’re just trying to save some lives.” He took the twine and wrapped it around the nearest arm of each rakke. When he was done, they were all tied together. Without pausing, he lifted the flap on the haversack he had slung over one shoulder, reached a hand inside and came out with a dollop of axle grease used for wagon wheels.
“There’s a part of me that says this is desecration,” Konowa said, not feeling sympathy for the rakkes, but something dangerously close to it.
“Part of you is right,” Yimt replied, quickly smearing grease on the rakkes’ chest and head, if they still had a head. “But the way I see it, for all the evil they did in their short, brutish lives, they get to make amends by helping us now. Makes what we’re doing here almost noble.” He took some of the fur on top of a rakke’s head and used the grease to pull it up into a spike then stood back to admire his work.
“You think this is something you’d tell the grandchildren one day?” Konowa asked, opening the haversack he was carrying and scooping out a small handful of copper shavings. He sprinkled some on each body, making sure to trickle a small pile on the grease-coated twine as well. The copper shavings stuck to the grease despite the wind.
“There are things I won’t tell myself,” Yimt said. “As for the rest of it, I imagine I’ll wind up being a plucky warrior saving poor benighted officers left, right, and center. Yup, they’ll think their gramps was a real hero.”
Konowa clapped the dwarf on the shoulder. “He is.”
“You’ll make an old dwarf cry with that kind of mush,” Yimt said, absently pulling up the hem of his caerna to rub the grease off his hand. The howling of rakkes turned both their heads.
“How much more twine do we have?” Konowa asked.
Yimt lifted up the bobbin and pulled the last foot of twine from it. “Out of twine and out of time.”
Konowa rolled his eyes and looked out across the desert. “I can see all kinds of shadows moving out there. I see the storm Visyna is controlling, too. Maybe two hundred yards away.” The thought of her being so close filled him with anxiety. Was she okay? He wanted to run out there right now to her, but he knew if they were going to have any chance of making it back to the fort they had to follow through with this plan.
“I wish I had my shatterbow with me,” Yimt said, sliding a large chopping ax out of the leather straps that held it to his back.
“We’ll be moving too fast to reload. If your plan works, your ax and my saber should be more than enough. If they aren’t, it won’t really matter.”
Yimt hefted the ax in his hands and gave it a few twirls. He deftly spun it around his body as if it were an extension of his arms. Images from Konowa’s dream in the Shadow Monarch’s forest came back to him and he was tempted to ask Yimt about it, but the sound of the rakkes was growing louder. Time was definitely up.
“So,” Konowa said, “I’ll find Visyna and the squad and lead them back here. When you see my signal, light the twine.”
Yimt looked him over. “Now that the rakkes from here to the door are done, a liberal dusting of you should do it.”
Konowa untied the bundled Hasshugeb robe that hung from the belt at his waist and draped it over his shoulders.
Yimt reached forward and opened the flap on Konowa’s haversack and stuck a hand inside. He took the copper shavings and dust and began patting them all over Konowa’s robe, ordering him to turn with a swirling motion of his main finger where upon he patted down his back as well.
“And this won’t hurt?” Konowa asked.
Yimt gave him an extra hard pat and turned him around to face him. “More than anything else you’ve been through in the last few days? Naw,” Yimt said, “can’t imagine it will feel more than a bunny nibbling on your fingers.”
Konowa decided to inquire about the kind of rabbits Yimt had encountered another time. “Right. Somehow, it seems like I should be sending you out running across the desert,” Konowa said, looking down and noticing how the copper shimmered in the reflected metallic light of the falling snow.
Yimt held out his right hand palm up. A small, black flame burned in the center of it. “Gotta hand it to the Viceroy. He knows as much about metals and alchemy as a dwarf. That pencil pusher has one devious mind.” The admiration in his voice sounded sincere.
“I think it’s part of the job requirement,” Konowa said, reaching out with his own hand and the black flame that burned there. The two shook, black sparks whirling up into the night.
“You know all those things I said about thinking ahead and not always charging headlong into battle?” Yimt said, looking up at Konowa with an unblinking stare.
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“I wasn’t listening,” Konowa said, giving the dwarf’s hand a squeeze then letting go. He turned and worked his way down through the last jumble of fallen rocks and hit the desert floor at a run. He unsheathed his saber and it immediately glistened with black frost.
“I didn’t think you were,” Yimt shouted after him. “Now go do what you do so well, Major. Stir up that hornet’s nest!”
Awind blew among the sarka har on the mountaintop, rattling their branches. Leaves heavy with ore and dark power twisted and ripped away, twirling through the air like miniature scythes. A few of the blood trees snapped and splintered, their trunks too rigid to cope with the strain. The Shadow Monarch ignored the whirling debris around Her and pulled Her robe closer. It was cold up here, even for Her. She sat on the leeward side of Her ryk faur, sheltered by its massive, gnarled trunk from the worst of the wind. Great, knobby branches hung low around Her, offering further protection.
She closed Her eyes and leaned Her head against the Silver Wolf Oak’s trunk. She felt the strong, urgent vibration of the ichor pulsing through the tree and took comfort from it. Her ryk faur would live. The early frost would not kill it. She saw the birthing meadow sparkling with white frost and felt the anguish as the tiny sapling screamed in terror and pain as the frost burned it. She turned to plead with the elves of the Long Watch to save it, but there was no one there.
The Shadow Monarch sat up, crying out as She reached to soothe the sapling. Her hands came to rest on the ulcerating trunk of the tree. It was sick. It was a thought She knew, yet refused to accept. The contradiction made Her angry, and She looked around for a place to vent Her rage.
A constant trickle of ichor bled down the side of the Silver Wolf Oak to collect in a pool near the Shadow Monarch’s feet. She stared at the shimmering surface, feeling the power flow from the tree. She tried to find Her children as She had before, but the surface of the ichor would not settle. The mountain shuddered and rock cracked as the roots of the sarka har drove deeper in search of sustenance.
