by Chris Evans
“You . . . said . . . me.” He took a step forward, then another and pointed toward the Shadow Monarch. “You called to Her all those centuries ago.”
Jurwan approached with his hands outstretched. “It is really me, my son. You must focus. Kill Her, and this will be done.”
Konowa laughed, though it felt as if his ribs were breaking. Cold seeped into every joint. He ignored the images of his friends and family and looked past the Shadow Monarch, and directly at the Silver Wolf Oak. “This wasn’t about Her. It was about you.
Kaman Rahl made the same mistake She made. You’re the real power here, not Her.”
In answer, the avatars of those he loved began to close around him. Konowa held his saber in front of him, coaxing the frost fire to a shimmering black furnace. He heard the grinding of wood on wood. The figures around him shuddered, and he saw through the facades to the twisted mess of ichor and wood forming the structure on which the illusions projected.
His mother appeared in the circle surrounding him. Her sad eyes found his. She reached out her hands. “Kill Her, my son. Kill Her and set me free.”
The cold now was so intense Konowa was having difficulty breathing. His entire body was shaking so hard it took all his strength to hold on to his saber. He watched with horror as the frost fire on the blade began to sputter.
“You must do this,” Chayii said, moving closer as the ring tightened.
Konowa shook his head and swung his saber around him like a drunk. He almost toppled over, but caught his footing in time. “No! I won’t. I want to know why. Why mark us? Why seek us out?”
The sound of branches moving grew in volume. The circle opened leaving Konowa no route except straight forward. The group of people he knew closed to within arm’s reach, but Konowa could no longer lift his own. The frost fire on his saber went out. Tears of frustration streamed down his face and froze. “I want . . . an answer!”
A branch reached out and circled around his right wrist. Frost fire burned at the spot, searing his skin. The branch tightened, and pointed his saber at the Shadow Monarch. It pulled him forward.
Konowa dug in his heels leaving a trail of black flame in his wake. “Why?”
Chayii moved to his side. “Kill Her my son, kill Her.”
Konowa wrenched his arm until his shoulder joint burned and lights began to flash behind his eyes. “Tell. Me. Why!” He pulled his arm and broke free of the branch. More snaked toward him. Frost fire burst again along his blade and he began slashing wildly at any that came close, setting them afire. The Shadow Monarch cringed, throwing Her hands over Her head.
Chayii moved toward him, but he held his saber in front of him and kept her at bay. “My son, this can all be over. She killed so many you love. She killed me. Kill Her, and the oath is broken.”
A new cold washed over Konowa’s body. The shades of the dead Iron Elves appeared, taking their place beside him. The circle of avatars surrounding Konowa moved back. RSM Lorian on Zwindarra. One-eyed Meri. Private Teeter. And Private Renwar. They said nothing, but there was no need. They and he were one. Their pain was his. Their need was his need.
“Break the oath. Set them free,” Chayii said.
Konowa stepped forward again. “No.”
Waves of anguish washed over Konowa as the shades writhed. He was prepared for battle, but this was something else. Life after life cut far too short flashed through his mind. Husbands that would never return to their wives. Sons who would never see their parents, and fathers who would never hold their children. The sorrow left him breathless. He sobbed until he thought he’d pass out.
“Why?” he screamed, staggering another step forward.
The image that was Chayii shattered, and in its place he saw the Silver Wolf Oak as it saw itself, as it wanted to be. It stood tall and proud, a towering, monstrous example of a Wolf Oak, its leafy crown a sky-blotting collection of glittering Stars. “This is why,” a new voice emanating from the Shadow Monarch said. “I was destined for more! I am more, and I will be, once She is gone.”
Konowa roared. “You’re a tree! You’re a damn, bloody tree! Why? Why all of this? If you hate Her, kill Her yourself. Why mark me?” he asked, pointing to his ruined ear. “Why mark any of us?”
“You wonder why I marked you? Why I marked the others? She is dying. She was always going to die. Do you know what happens to a Silver Wolf Oak when its ryk faur dies?”
A light of understanding dawned in Konowa. “You die, too. Not right away, but you wither and die. The bond has its price.” Konowa understood better now why Tyul was the way he was. “If you kill Her, you kill yourself.”
“And so I need a new bond, a new life to take Her place. The acorn your father gave you was my gift. She did my bidding as Her own. But now I need more. Her strength bleeds away. I need a strong elf, one not enraptured by the natural world as all these other elves are. As She was. And so I sought to set some of you apart in the hopes that one day I would find one strong enough to bond with and create a new world.”
The acorn against Konowa’s heart cracked. He felt the first tendril of what was inside pierce his skin and start to worm its way into his flesh.
“I created you, my child, and now we will be one.”
Konowa screamed and reached for his chest. He ripped his tunic exposing his flesh. He grabbed the acorn and pulled, but he couldn’t remove it. The saber fell from his right hand. Everything was going dark. More branches snaked around him.
He looked to the shades for help, but they were trapped in a shimmering wall of frost fire. He was alone.
A branch wrapped itself around his right wrist while another reached to the ground for his saber.
The saber wasn’t there. Konowa forced his head up. The Shadow Monarch stood next to the Silver Wolf Oak, his saber in Her hands.
“I cannot kill you, my love, my life,” She said, the tears streaming down Her face. “I saved you, I gave you life.” Her voice was broken with sobs. The love and agony in it made Konowa hurt.
The branches of the Silver Wolf Oak shook and thrashed in an attempt to get to the Shadow Monarch, but they were so interwoven now around Konowa they could not reach Her. She moved forward until She stood beside the tree’s twisted trunk. Her sobs grew louder as She sunk to Her knees beside it.
Branches snapped as the sarka har flailed around them. The entire mountain began to tremble. Konowa stumbled as the rock heaved beneath him. The air turned so cold he could no longer breathe. His vision grayed at the edge.
“You have to!” Konowa choked. He struggled to move forward, but the cold and the shaking ground made it impossible.
The Shadow Monarch turned to look at him. “No, I can’t. I won’t. But if I cannot be with my love in this life, I will be with it in the next.” She turned the saber so that the point was facing Her chest, and then She fell forward.
The mountain shuddered. Rocks cracked and blew apart as the Silver Wolf Oak’s roots ripped through the deep, climbing back to the surface to ensnare Konowa in their grasp. The first roots broke free and wrapped themselves around his ankle, but they were too late.
The summit exploded in a shower of black, crystal flame. The Shadow Monarch’s body vanished in a gale of frost fire. The flame ignited the ichor dripping from the Silver Wolf Oak and set it ablaze. It flamed at once, burning so dark the night appeared as day. Konowa burned, too, only now, he had no protection from the frost fire. He stumbled blindly through the flame, struggling to find a way out. He tripped and fell, landing hard on a rock. He struggled to stay conscious as the black flames roared skyward, consuming everything on the mountain peak. He knew if he stayed here, he would die.
The pain tried to keep him pinned to the ground, but the fire inside made him roll. He climbed to his feet, still reeling. He couldn’t see. Everything was aflame. Sarka har shrieked as they burned. The Silver Wolf Oak’s branches thrashed and tore itself apart in its funeral pyre of ugly, black flame.
A wave of cold air suddenly surrou
nded him. He looked up. The shades of the dead stood beside him again, shielding him from the raging fire. Private Renwar stepped forth. His shadowy form solidified for a moment, revealing the young lad Konowa had first met. They locked eyes. Alwyn smiled, and saluted. The other shades followed suit. Lorian. Meri. His men. His brothers.
Konowa struggled to stand upright and returned their salute, the tears streaming freely down his face. It wasn’t the salute that made him cry. It was seeing their smiles.
The oath was broken.
“Thank you,” Alwyn said, and was gone.
Konowa blinked. He was alone on the mountaintop. The fire still burned. He flung his body off the rock, tumbling and sliding until he could no longer feel the icy flames. He came to rest in the crook of two rocks. The mountain was shaking beneath him. Rocks split and fractured as chasms dug too long and too deep collapsed.
Debris began falling past him. The irony that he would survive his encounter on the mountaintop only to be killed by a falling rock put a grin on his face.
He waited for the fateful blow, but none came. The mountain stopped shaking. He sat up, clutching his chest. When he brought his hand away and looked, the black stain on his chest was still there, but already he could feel warmth spreading through his body. He ripped the black acorn stuck to his chest, and this time it came away. As he held it in his hands he felt the coldness leave it. He thought about what his father said, about how its contact with him would have changed it.
He took in a tentative breath, waiting for a stab of pain to black him out, but beyond a level of overall agony he had become accustomed to, he felt pretty damn good. He gingerly climbed to his feet and looked up. The black flames had gone out. He looked around. There were no signs of sarka har anywhere. He clenched his fists. Nothing. No frost fire.
He climbed back up to the mountaintop. A thick, black ash floated in the air, coating everything. Nothing else remained to show the Shadow Monarch and Her forest had ever been there. The rock where the Silver Wolf Oak had grown had been scoured clean by the frost fire. Konowa kicked his boot through the black ash until he heard a familiar clink. He bent down and picked up his saber. He hefted it in his hands and made a couple of practice swipes in the air. He spun around, expecting something to be standing behind him, but he was alone.
Konowa sheathed his saber. There wasn’t even an echo. He wanted to feel something more, but after all this time, the feeling that overwhelmed all others was that for the first time in his life, he could see himself being happy.
It was a scary thought. He shivered, and decided it was time to get back. He took one last look around and started to set off back down the mountain, but paused.
He opened his hand and looked at the acorn. Could his father be right? Was this a chance for things to be different? After everything, maybe he could find a way to bond with nature. Gently, he knelt down and placed the acorn on the ground. He stood back up and looked at it. A light breeze drifted through the clearing, tousling his hair across his face. For a long time he stared at the acorn, waiting. Then he raised his boot and slammed his heel down on the acorn with all his might. The acorn splintered into several pieces. He lifted his boot and brought it down again and again and again until there was nothing left.
“Bloody trees,” he muttered, turning and never looking back.
“I’ll leave out the parts where I screamed,” he said to himself as he began composing his story for the others. The rest of it, he decided, he’d tell more or less as it happened.
More or less.
Konowa smiled.
It felt . . . good.
Konowa walked along a path among the trees, occasionally reaching out a hand to brush against the bark as he went. Autumn was in the air. He still wore his uniform, although it no longer conformed to any regulations. His trousers were neatly patched with pieces of Hasshugeb robe, and his jacket no longer carried epaulettes or shiny buttons, the latter having long been replaced by polished pieces of wood from a few shards of the Black Spike. He reached up and scratched his head, still not used to not having a shako there. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of the musket on its sling. His right hand rested on the pommel of his saber with a light but firm grip.
The wind chased fallen leaves before him like a covey of startled quail. It had been three months since the battle on the mountain-top. Three months and he still kept a wary eye on the trees around him. Better safe than sorry. He paused and took in a breath.
“Okay,” he said to himself, closing his eyes, “I can do this.”
He stretched out his arms, palms up, and listened to the forest. It was alive with the sounds of birds and beasts and all manner of insects and other living creatures. The distant voices of the Wolf Oaks were there, too, but if they were talking to him, he couldn’t understand a word they were saying.
A squirrel scampered down a trunk nearby and paused to look at him. Konowa raised an eyebrow at it. “Father?”
The squirrel bushed its tail and darted back up the tree.
“Guess not.” He tried again, straining to hear more than the usual buzz of noise. He closed his eyes and concentrated. C’mon, something talk to me.
“You look like a juggler who’s lost his balls.”
Konowa opened his eyes. Yimt stood a few feet up ahead on the path. His teeth gleamed as he smiled. He was dressed in soft brown and green leathers, and carried a custom-tailored long bow on his back. His trusty drukar hung at his side off his old Calahrian uniform’s belt.
“The forest and I remain, unsurprisingly, not on speaking terms.”
“Just as well,” Yimt said, stepping forward as he shoved a wad of crute between his teeth. He offered some to Konowa who politely shook his head. “Brigadier generals that hear trees don’t stay brigadiers for long.”
Konowa snorted, and fell in step with the dwarf as they started walking back down the path. In the distance just visible through the trees, a small cottage and a neatly domed pile of rocks with a small wooden door sat by a river in a lush, green meadow. “I told you, I’m not taking the commission. Marshal Ruwl got me once, but not again. The Iron Elves are in good hands with Pimmer.”
“What about the message from Miss Synjyn, and the King? They all seem rather keen to have you back under arms,” Yimt said. His voice was filled with mirth at Konowa’s discomfort. “The Shadow Monarch and Her forces might be gone, but the Empire is far from stable. And you are the hero. I read all about it in the Imperial Weekly Herald,” Yimt said, flourishing a scroll of paper.
Konowa made a face. “They can send Rakestraw’s cavalry out looking for me for all I care. I am officially retired. I’m back where I belong, in a forest . . . among the trees . . .” Konowa stopped walking and took the scroll from Yimt and unfurled it. A very lifelike sketch of several members of the regiment graced the top of the page along with the official citations commending their acts of bravery. Fifty-two had survived. It hurt to read that, but Konowa was grateful that many had come through. For a very long time he feared the number would be zero.
He easily recognized Corporal Vulhber, RSM Aguom, Private Scolly Erinmoss, and a beaming Major Pimrald Alstonfar. They formed the core of the fully reconstituted Iron Elves, and Konowa couldn’t be happier about that. He ignored his own sketch and grinned when he saw Yimt’s. Rallie had somehow managed to capture the glint of his metal teeth and mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Even newly minted Ensign Feylan of the Imperial Calahrian Navy was depicted. At this rate the lad would have his own ship in a couple more years.
Konowa’s joy dimmed as he scanned down to the posthumous awards. The list was long, much too long. Rallie had drawn the deceased with grace and humor, capturing them at their best, their eyes bright and their smiles genuine and strong, but it still hollowed Konowa out to look at them.
He let the scroll roll up and handed it back to Yimt.
“What about you? Don’t you have a wife and family missing you? You’re a free dwarf. Why not go home and open your l
aw firm? I’m sure there are guilty men in jail right now for no other reason than you’re out here and not in a courtroom working your particular brand of magic.”
Yimt looked down at the ground for a moment before looking up into Konowa’s eyes. “I had to make sure you were okay. I . . . we lost a lot of good lads. I couldn’t stand to lose anymore.”
Konowa reached out and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Yimt, look at me. For the first time in my life, I can honestly say I’m happy.”
A rustling in the trees cut off his next words. Both elf and dwarf turned. Konowa’s hand slid to the pommel of his saber while Yimt drew out his drukar. The sound grew louder as it moved closer. Konowa crouched, tensing his muscles. A moment later, Jir bounded out of the low brush covered in burrs. A moment after that the smell hit them. He looked at both of them, wagging his stubby tail.
“Yirka umno, Jir! I told you, stay away from skunks!” Konowa turned to Yimt. “Whose turn is it to wash him?”
Yimt was already several yards down the path. “Sorry, can’t hear you. See you at dinner!”
Konowa shouted a curse and reluctantly started walking toward the river, motioning for Jir to follow. “Do you think you’ll ever learn?”
“Do you?” Visyna asked.
Konowa looked up to see her coming up the path to meet them. “Yimt tells me you let Jir get in trouble again.”
Konowa smiled. Visyna looked . . . perfect. Her long brown hair gleamed in the sun and her almond-shaped eyes flashed with joy.
“Me? You give me too much credit. I was just going for a walk.” He closed the distance between them and took her in his arms. He shooed Jir away with his boot and the bengar loped off after the dwarf. “Yimt asked me about the offer to rejoin the army again.”
