by Chris Evans
The rakke growled and took another step forward. Its arms could now reach Konowa. One swing and his throat would be torn open or his intestines spilled in the snow. That’s all it would take for him to be so much red meat going down the gullet of a rakke.
“I haven’t had a bath in weeks,” Konowa said, doubting the rakke’s taste buds would care. He took in a breath and cursed under it. Not exactly the most poetic of last words. He was still thinking of something better when the rakke screamed and vanished in a burst of frost fire.
A shade stood where the rakke once had. Konowa blinked.
“Kritton? You saved me?”
The shade of Kritton stepped forward and swung its blade. “No, I didn’t.”
I am the master!
Never in the creature’s past life had it ever believed that statement in its entirety. It had served senior diplomats, and then the queen of Calahr, and finally the Shadow Monarch, and though it had exerted much power and control over the destinies of others in those roles, it had always had a master to answer to. What few memories remained of that time only served to fuel the uncontrollable rage that now consumed it. How could it have been so weak, so powerless, so . . . human?
It continued to tear itself apart, ridding itself of everything superfluous and soft. The human frailties that had defined Gwyn eroded in the fierce storm of its madness. All that remained was pure, unadulterated power. Its world was now one of unbearable pain, yet within that suffering it found an existence so euphoric that it sought even more ways to hurt itself. It scoured and tore every last shred of humanity from its being, whittling itself down to nothing but a collapsing mass of absolute agony.
The vortex of its madness swirled faster and faster, rending the fabric between the planes of the living and the dead. More and more creatures long vanished from the world poured through the tear, taking up ethereal form and attacking the shades of the Iron Elves with raw, wild glee, unfettered again after millennia.
I do this! I control this!
Its core grew smaller even as its power expanded. Its rage and power flew around it in a blur, spinning so fast they created a vacuum. There was no longer any air to breathe within its boundaries, but it had long moved beyond the need for it.
I am the master!
The voice that answered back shook it to its core.
“You are mistaken,” Alwyn said, “and I am here to put things right.”
“Are you all right?” Visyna asked, helping Chayii to her feet while brushing snow from the elf’s hair.
“I appear to be,” she said, her voice shaking as she smoothed out her Hasshugeb robe and straightened up. “Your weaving has saved us again. The snow is much deeper here.”
“I hope the others landed as softly as we did,” Visyna said, not entirely sure her weaving had really had that much of an effect. The burst of fear- and anger-induced energy brought on by Konowa’s latest recklessness had fueled her power to weave the snow in the wake of the toboggan. She doubted she could do it again, although knowing Konowa she didn’t rule it out. He could charm one second and infuriate the next.
“I hope so, too, my dear,” Chayii said, reaching up and brushing some snow out of Visyna’s hair. “You work well with the natural order. I suspect the elf-line runs in your family.”
“Actually, I don’t think one’s bloodline really matters when it comes to caring about the world around us. You either do or you don’t. It just feels right to me.”
Chayii paused in brushing Visyna’s hair and looked deeply into her eyes. “So wise for one so young. Do not tell my son, but I hope my grandchildren take after you.”
Any other time Visyna would have blushed, but being in the middle of a battlefield didn’t afford her that luxury. “We must move,” she said, grabbing the elf by the arm and heading off after the toboggan. It was easy enough to follow its tracks in the snow along with bits of crates, sacks, uniforms, and, eventually, soldiers.
“Friend or foe?” Corporal Feylan shouted. He held the back half of a broken musket in his hands and appeared dazed.
“Shoot first, then ask,” Yimt said, appearing out of the gloom and placing a hand on the soldier’s arm. “But in this case it’s all right. Ladies,” he said, taking a quick bow. He held his drukar in his hand. The blade was slick and dripping.
“Are you okay?” Visyna asked, walking closer. Yes, there was definitely blood on the end of his weapon.
Yimt followed her gaze and then looked back up. “Just my luck I landed on a rakke and the poor thing broke my fall. I am glad I found you. We’re scattered about like dandelions in a windstorm. Ah, there’s a few more now.”
“Is everyone all right?” Hrem asked, running up to them. He had Scolly and Zwitty and three other soldiers in tow. Visyna wasn’t surprised. The big soldier was a natural leader with the added advantage of being easy to spot.
“Better and better,” Yimt said, punching Hrem affectionately in the bicep. “We’re still missing a few, but we can’t stay here. We’ll keep following the trail and see if we can’t round up the stragglers on the way. If you haven’t already done so, grab some kind of weapon. I don’t care if it’s a piece of ice or a knitting needle, but we’re deep in the middle of nowhere safe. Miss Red Owl, Miss Tekoy, please stay behind Private Vulhber. He makes a lovely wall. The rest of you, heads on swivels and if you think you see a rakke or worse, shout it out. Now, by the left if you still remember how it’s done . . . march.”
As they walked Visyna found herself tussling between two emotions. On the one hand she felt relieved that Sergeant Arkhorn so quickly and easily took command of the situation, but she was surprised to feel a degree of resentment, too, at the loss of the authority she had earned just a short few hours before. In the end, she was content to let things be as her thoughts turned to Konowa.
“I hope he’s all right, because when we find him, I might just punch him in the nose,” she said.
“He was like this even as a child,” Chayii said, keeping her voice low. “The incident in the birthing meadow when he was not chosen by a Wolf Oak only added to what was already there. I realize now he will never truly be at peace until this has come full circle. He will face the Shadow Monarch, and one of them will die.”
Visyna was taken aback by Chayii’s matter-of-fact assessment of the fate of her son, but she didn’t disagree with it. “Perhaps there will be another way.”
“Perhaps,” Chayii said, but she didn’t sound like she believed it, and Visyna wasn’t sure she did herself.
“Heads up! Movement on the left flank.”
Visyna turned. Two shadows emerged from the dark and resolved themselves into the Viceroy and Jurwan.
“Look who I found, or rather, who found me!” the Viceroy said, his voice booming as if trying to get the attention of a barkeep on a busy night. He walked with one arm around the elf’s waist. Jurwan clutched his left arm tight to his chest and appeared to be in pain. Blood glistened between the fingers of his right hand.
Two more shadows emerged ten yards from the pair and angled toward them at a growing rate of speed.
“Rakkes!” Visyna shouted, her fingers flailing uselessly in the cold air. She couldn’t pull so much as a single thread to weave. She stomped the snow in frustration as the rakkes closed in. The Viceroy nonchalantly drew his saber and began to whistle loudly and with little sense of rhythm. Jurwan removed his right hand from his wounded left arm and waved it into the air, scattering drops of blood everywhere.
The rakkes roared and ran even faster toward them. Five more rakkes appeared from the other side, boxing the hapless pair in.
Yimt was already charging toward the rakkes with Hrem right behind him, but they wouldn’t reach them in time.
“Yimt. Hrem. Stop!”
The command cut through the night like a sliver from a single hair threaded through the smallest needle. If Visyna hadn’t been standing right beside her she doubted she would have heard it, but Yimt turned, startled. Hrem stopped, too, af
ter plowing into Yimt and sending them both to their knees in the snow.
“Chayii, why?” Visyna asked, as the rakkes covered the last few yards to the Viceroy and Jurwan.
“My husband is up to his old tricks again,” she said, her tone a mixture of pride and annoyance.
A fifth shadow slid through the night. It moved so fast and so silently that Visyna couldn’t keep it in focus. A soft, subtle voice carried on the night air, and while she couldn’t understand its language, its meaning was clear; this was the power of a Silver Wolf Oak unleashed.
Tyul cut through the rakkes like lightning falling from the sky. He appeared, he destroyed, he disappeared. The creatures had no chance to defend themselves and no time to scream.
As the last rakke collapsed, Tyul came to a standstill, standing quietly in the snow as if he’d been there all along. No other living thing except perhaps Jir could look so calm and yet exude so much potential for violence. It was in the smooth, calculating grace of his stance. She would have found that attractive but for looking in his eyes. The elf was gone. What remained was little more than pure, natural force, a predator of the natural order driven and sustained by the power of a Silver Wolf Oak.
The smell of hot blood filled the air and Visyna brought her hand to her nose.
“What is—” she started to say, but Chayii held up her hand to silence her.
She took a slow, careful step toward Tyul, but the elf simply turned and disappeared into the night. Visyna looked down at the snow where he had stood and could see no sign that he had ever been there.
“A single company of lads like that and the Empire could rule the world,” the Viceroy said, walking up to them as he sheathed his saber. He stopped when he looked at Chayii and his smile froze on his face. “But of course, his affliction is a most tragic one and not something to be used for gain.” He sounded genuinely concerned if a little wistful.
“I see my husband does not share your concern equally,” she said, turning her gaze on Jurwan. “No doubt he cut himself deliberately so that the rakkes would smell his blood and come running, unaware they were being drawn into the hunting ground of one of the dïova gruss.”
Visyna had heard that term before and remembered it meant lost one. It definitely fit Tyul. It wasn’t that the elf was insane, at least, she didn’t think so, just that he was so in tune with the natural order that he had become part of it as much as the wind and the rain. He would strike down rakkes and any other ill-conceived creatures that marred the world and upset the natural order.
“Chayii,” Visyna asked, “what will happen to Tyul when there are no more rakkes to hunt?”
The elf hung her head before answering. “Eventually, they lose themselves so completely that they can’t bear to feed on anything, knowing their very existence mars the world. They starve to death in one final act of guardianship of the natural order, giving back their bodies to the earth.”
“That’s crazy,” Zwitty muttered, drawing everyone’s attention his way. He looked guilty, but met their gaze and glared. “Well, isn’t it? What good is anybody dead to anyone?”
“I’ve often wanted to find out,” Yimt said, eyeing Zwitty as if sizing him up for a coffin. “But as with so many joys in life, that will have to wait. We need to keep moving. Anyone seen Inkermon? He jumped about the same time you lot did?”
Hrem shook his head. “It was all a white blur. He’s got to be around here somewhere though.”
No one mentioned the obvious, but Visyna could tell they were all thinking it. With rakkes roaming everywhere his odds of survival were slim. He was no Tyul.
“Well, if that creator of his put any sense in his brain he’ll follow the tracks and catch up. Let’s go.”
Visyna fell into step, watching Chayii gently take her husband’s arm and rest her head on his shoulder. Jurwan still wasn’t talking, but it was clear from his tactic with Tyul he was regaining his elfness.
A forlorn shako, a broken musket, and other bits of uniform and equipment surrounded several black marks in the snow where Iron Elves had perished. Yimt took the time to quickly sift through each one, muttering under his breath as he did so. In each case he picked up something and put the object in a haversack he’d found and slung over his shoulder.
“What’s he doing?” Visyna asked Hrem.
“Collecting something from each soldier, hopefully something personal their family back home might know and appreciate receiving, especially when there won’t be any body.”
“Damn,” Yimt said, standing up from the last spot. He was holding a small white book in his hand with a torn cover.
“Inkermon’s holy book,” Hrem said, his voice low and rough.
Visyna waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. She thought about it, and realized that for soldiers like Hrem and Yimt and Konowa, the squad, the regiment, was another way of saying family.
“Everyone stay sharp, we’re coming up on the main battle,” Yimt said, pointing with his steel bar toward the front.
Visyna had been feeling the pull of the energy in the air for some time and her head began to swim.
“I see a rakke!” Scolly shouted, harkening Yimt’s advice.
“Pointing would help,” Yimt growled, trying to follow Scolly’s eye line.
“It’s standing over there by the major.”
Everyone looked. Up ahead in a rockier area that hadn’t received the heavier snowfall, Konowa sat limply in the snow, looking up at the creature. He wasn’t defending himself.
“Help him!” Visyna cried, not knowing who or what could.
“My son, my son,” Chayii said, her voice trembling.
The rakke stepped forward, ready to kill him when it disappeared in a violent flash of frost fire. The shade of an Iron Elf stood over its body.
“The Darkly Departed are handy to have around, I’ll give them that,” Yimt said, starting to chuckle. His laughter died as the form of the shade sharpened.
Visyna screamed.
Kritton raised his ethereal blade and swung.
The swirling mass that had once been Her Emissary tore itself into ever tinier pieces, scattering its rage and influence among the shades of the dead rakkes. Alwyn had expected to fight the creature as he had before at the canyon, but he realized now that was impossible. It had devolved into a burning black core of hatred no bigger than Alwyn’s fist, but around it swirled an ever-growing maelstrom of shadowy death, each element a fearful particle of what Faltinald Gwyn had become.
Worse, the tear opened into the realm of the dead was expanding, and the creature’s manic anger was drawing more and larger monsters through into this world. Alwyn leaned forward, pushing the wall of frost fire that surrounded him into the path of the shrieking vortex. The pain in his stump flared and he winced. Tears welled in his eyes. His wooden leg creaked with the stress, its many interwoven limbs splintering as he moved through the magical storm.
The storm reacted with fury to his presence, its howling winds buffeting Alwyn as he closed the distance to its center. Screams from the living and dead mingled in a chaotic thunder. Alwyn tried to draw in a breath, but as soon as he opened his mouth he felt ice form on his tongue. The cold dug into him like metal forks, twisting and stabbing into his flesh as each step brought him closer to the creature.
“I am the master now!” the creature screamed, focusing its attention on Alwyn.
“Then why do you fear me?” Alwyn replied, standing up to his full height and fixing the pulsing black core with his gray eyes. He had its full attention, which meant the others would have a chance. The thought struck him as oddly comforting. He did still care about others, and he knew they still cared about him.
He stepped forward, leading with his wooden leg. The wood chipped and cracked as it was flayed by the storm. Black frost crystallized along the length of the wood, extinguishing the last trace of the more wholesome power once placed there by Miss Red Owl and Miss Tekoy. So be it. With the wood now sheathed in protective black ice, h
e leaned forward and kept walking.
He’d expected pain, and he got it. It was a new kind of agony, like thousands of knives nicking his flesh one sliver at a time, but it wasn’t the pain that hurt him. He wasn’t just being eroded away by the force of the spinning storm. Bits of who he was, what he believed, what he desired, were being frayed and blown away by the grinding, howling wind.
He caught fleeting visions of thoughts that were once part of the thing at the center of the storm. Pain, horror, misery, and death dominated, but there were other, kinder thoughts. He saw a beautiful jeweled map and an intricately carved table that looked like a dragon. Alwyn began to sift through the storm as he strode toward its center, collecting what pieces he could, however small, containing joy and hope. He let his own fears and angers get torn away as he did his best to replace them with the bits of goodness he found. The task was an uneven one, but he only needed to sustain himself a little longer. The seething core was now just yards away.
Here, near the center, the storm spun slower, but the madness grew denser, making it difficult for Alwyn to focus. Insane laughter filled his lungs. Is this me? Am I becoming it?
He stopped a yard away from the black core. It hung in the air in front of his eyes, an infinite blackness so crazed it repeatedly shattered and re-formed under the pressure of its own insanity. He tried to remember why he’d come and couldn’t. The blackness deepened and his understanding of this world and the next blurred. He shuddered, his body and his being slowly disintegrating in the storm. The fabric of his uniform melted away, leaving him naked and exposed.
Something small and white flew past, just at the edge of his vision. It came around again and stuck into his arm. He felt a hot fire begin to burn, its heat spreading out from the point of impact. As it spread, it redefined his shape, his form, and he understood who and what he was again. He looked down and saw Rallie’s quill sticking out of his arm, dead center in the acorn tattoo: Æri Mekah . . . Into the Fire.
