A Darkness Forged in Fire

FIFTEEN

No better time than now offers itself to smart young elves and NOW humans, too. (Dwarves need not apply!) Come, be a part of history as the Light Infantry of the Hynta, the Iron Elves, the most famous siggers to ever wear Her Majesty's colors, march again!

Enjoy the Honor of being commanded by HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, PRINCE TYKKIN, whose distinguished ability and flawless character is so great that no language can do it justice.

NB. Clothing and accoutrements are of the highest quality and all soldiers accepted into the rank will be provided the famous winged shako. Arrears paid to relieve soldiers of obligations to debtors including relatives, business associates, former regiments, and up to three wives.

Konowa crumpled the leaflet in his hand and let it fall to the ground. The only path they were likely to tread in the coming days was one washed with blood. He looked up and started walking toward the parade square where the new regiment was being formed.

Everything was moving too fast, and all in the wrong direction.

Just a week ago, his biggest concern had been getting smothered by mosquitoes in the forest. Now he was enmeshed in a web of events he didn't begin to understand, but he knew he'd better if he and the regiment were going to survive. Nothing that had happened to him so far gave him much hope, especially the notion that there was a shadowy hand guiding things as his father suggested. He instinctively patted his coat, where the pouch Jurwan had given him was tucked away. He was constantly reaching for it, a little worried that he should suddenly feel so attached to the blackness held within. Every so often he would feel a sensation as if the leather had been worn away, allowing the cold smoothness of the acorn's shell to rub against his skin, sending a sudden chill coursing through his body. Despite the heat, it was a feeling he could have done without. Each time it happened, he felt tempted to open it up and look inside, and each time he fought it. His life was growing increasingly more complicated by the day without adding to its difficulties by ignoring a wizard's warning. Perhaps, he mused, his newfound restraint boded well.

"Get your hard head back to the wagons. The regiment isn't accepting any dwarves!"

As usual, Konowa was dead wrong. He looked up to see a large group of soldiers milling about the parade square as a sergeant yelled at a dwarf soldier. Konowa recognized the dwarf as the one Jir had taken an interest in.

"Trouble?" Konowa asked. Jaal had recommended Sergeant Lorian be promoted as the Iron Elves' regimental sergeant major and Konowa had happily agreed. As with most of the details, the Prince had neglected to find an RSM and no regiments would give theirs up. Konowa came to a halt in front of the troops and returned Lorian's salute while the soldiers came to attention. It was still taking Konowa by surprise-the only salute he'd received in the forest had been Jir lifting his leg.

"No, sir, I was just culling the herd. The Prince's leaflet has attracted quite a few volunteers, including this dwarf."

It was said evenly enough, but Lorian clearly disapproved of the soldiers gathered around them. Not that Konowa blamed the man, a career soldier and proud of his service. The collection of troops before them was appalling. Every regiment, regular army, and those assigned to protect the Trading Company had taken the Prince's gold and selected the very worst from within its ranks. It appeared that every corner of the Empire was represented. There was a group of black-skinned warriors from the southern islands, the number of battles they had participated in marked in scarring lines on their cheekbones, and even a pair of pale, pasty fellows with corn-yellow hair who could only be from the northern fishing enclaves of the Dirilza. Konowa knew there wasn't a weedier, rougher-looking group of soldiers assembled anywhere within the Empire at that very moment.

Of course, there was one bright exception. Before he'd left, the Duke of Rakestraw had convinced five of his hussars to transfer to the reformed Iron Elves: four veteran troopers and, of course, Sergeant now Regimental Sergeant Major Dhareg Lorian, the latest in a growing list of those who had tried to kill Konowa on first meeting. They weren't elves, but they were first-class soldiers, and that was rare enough.

Konowa turned his attention to the dwarf.

"A dwarf, you say? Well, that would certainly explain his height," Konowa said, giving the soldier a quick appraisal. Little more than four feet tall, he was as broad as any two elves across the shoulders. Obvious intelligence sparkled in a pair of clear blue eyes, about the only feature of his face besides a squashed nose that his beard of tangled black hair, in which the remnants of his breakfast still clung, didn't obscure. His uniform looked like a collection of rags held together by spells instead of stitching, but his boots were sturdy and well polished and his double-barreled shatterbow and the scabbard for his drukar gleamed with obvious care.

The dwarf's mouth opened and closed, but then he nodded and smiled. "You have a keen mind you have, sir. I was tellin' my mate Alwyn here that very thing I was. That officer there, I said, he's a bright one. I like to be forthright an' honest like a good sigger should in explaining to these youngsters the ways and means of the world, keeping in mind the vagaries of service to her Blessed Majesty all the while-"

"Can you read, Private?" Konowa asked, cutting him off.

"Oh, yes, sir, Major. See my pay book," he said, lifting the top of his shako and pulling out a small red booklet and opening it to the first page. "Says Private Yimt Arkhorn right across the top there."

Konowa looked. There were a multitude of marks and notations for transgressions of military law and good order, most falling under the infamous four-letter rubric BWTD-Brawling-Whoring-Thieving-Drinking. The area for rank had clearly been erased and rewritten several times. "It appears that it used to say Sergeant Arkhorn, Royal Engineers. That's a long way from nursemaiding wagon trains."

Private Arkhorn coughed. "Misunderstandings and out-and-out jealousy, sir. Some folk just aren't as keen to serve Her Majesty as others, you see, and they resent those of us like you and me who excel, if you take my meaning. You can't make a spell without breaking a few crystal balls, as me grandmare used to say, but alas, not everyone holds to that philosophy."

"Impertinent little rat," Lorian growled, taking a step closer. "He's been busted more times than I've had hot dinners, Major."

Konowa flipped through the pay book and was astounded to see paymaster stamps dating back over thirty years, from virtually every major campaign and battle the Imperial Army had fought in. He handed back the pay book and raised his hand. "And seen more fighting, too. However, that doesn't address our problem. If you can read, Private, then you'd know the call for troops excluded dwarves."

"Begging the Major's pardon, but that's not true," he said. To prove his point, he lifted the top of his shako again and pulled out one of the leaflets, turned it upside down, and pointed to the part about dwarves. "See here, in black ink it says dwarves need not apply? Well, that's as plain as the wart on a witch's teat. Means dwarves are automatically accepted; we don't even need to apply."

Konowa looked away momentarily to hide the smile on his face. Lorian, however, had just about lost it.

"This is absurd, sir," Lorian interrupted. "The dwarf is making a mockery of the call for volunteers. The Iron Elves-"

"Is now made up of humans," Konowa said calmly, looking at the sergeant, "so adding a dwarf doesn't seem all that troublesome."

"But his teeth, sir, look at them. He's one of them rock eaters."

"Eat rocks?" the dwarf roared. "What kind of mad-hatter do you take me for, begging your pardon, sir. You don't eat them, you chew them."

Konowa had indeed noticed the pewter-colored set of teeth in the dwarf's mouth.

"Grew up in the mines did you, Urilian Mountains?" Konowa asked.

The dwarf nodded. "That I did, sir. Was noshing my first bit of crute afore I was even weaned. Bit tough on me dear old ma'am. But not to worry, I ain't lit off a cartridge yet on account I use Lil' Nipper here," he said, patting the shatterbow affectionately. "The range is a tad shorter than a musket, but she makes up for it in wallop. Been in the family for years. It was my aunt's, you know." He smiled, his metal-impregnated teeth glinting like newly minted coins.

Konowa turned to Lorian. "He could probably ignite every cartridge and shell from here to Calahr with that silver tongue of his, so I don't think there's much point worrying about his teeth. We're going to need every able-bodied soldier we can get. He can stay. In fact," Konowa said, stepping away from the troops so they could all see him, "any sigger that wants to tread that path of glory and prove himself can stay. I don't care what you've done up to this point, and I don't care who you are. From this moment on, you are Iron Elves, and if you aren't the finest troops in all the lands right now, you will be." Konowa refrained from adding the postscript: or you'll be dead.

A bugle call sounded from over by the Prince's marquee, three long, two short, two long. Konowa grimaced then resumed a look of nonchalance as he turned and headed back to see what the Prince wanted now. The voice of Private Arkhorn carried on the air like the squawk of a nattering magpie.

"See that, I told you I'd convince him!"

"But you were complaining ever since Corporal Kritton volunteered us. You said that joining the Hintys was a one-way ticket to death and glory," another soldier said.

"Glory and death, Ally," the dwarf corrected him, "glory and death. The key is to get them in the right order, and make sure there is a lot of space between them so you can enjoy the first."

"You think we'll get a chance for that?"

"Ally," Arkhorn said, his voice dropping low so that Konowa could barely hear it, "I think we'll get more chances than we can use in a lifetime."

"They are absolutely despicable!"

Konowa barely nodded. The air was already thick with heat and his head still ached from his overindulgence with Jaal. He'd never fully appreciated the relative coolness of the forests of this land, as well as their lack of Sala brandy and persuasive friends.

Prince Tykkin stamped a boot on the ground, sending up a lazy cloud of dust. "The colonels have taken advantage of my generosity and given me nothing but dregs. These soldiers are a disgrace." He paused and took a deep breath. "Major?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Is that a dwarf?"

Konowa followed the Prince's stare and saw Private Yimt Arkhorn at the end of it, all four blustery, roguish feet of him.

"Yes, sir, a veteran, sir, twelve campaigns. He was in Rewland with your father thirty years ago. I asked around, and he's as good a sigger as you're likely to find."

The Prince sniffed at the word sigger, and it occurred to Konowa that in His Highness's refined circles nicknames, especially crude ones, were not in vogue.

"What's he doing here?" the Prince asked. His voice had climbed an octave and his cheeks were blushing like a pair of polished apples.

"The regiment needs veterans who know one end of a bayonet from the other, no matter what their race. When the spell is cast and we're in the thick of it, all that matters is balls, sir, musket and soldier. We'll need both."

Prince Tykkin's eyes opened wider at Konowa's analogy, but the words apparently had an effect, because he remained quiet for several moments.

"Major?"

Konowa surveyed the troops and tried to anticipate which one had drawn the Prince's attention this time. The possibilities were too great. "Sir?"

"There's a soldier wearing spectacles. And that one over there has only one eye."

Konowa looked to where the Prince was pointing and sure enough, one of the new soldiers had a black patch over the socket of his right eye. The entire side of his face look ravaged from disease, but Konowa knew better.

"A misfire from his firelock," Konowa said, "the powder went off in his face. It happens when the metal gets hot from steady firing, especially with inferior muskets. The metal weakens and instead of sending the blast down the barrel, it bursts it at the lock, right where the soldier puts his cheek."

"The man should be invalided home, or placed in the commissary division," the Prince said. "How am I to build a regiment with material like that?"

"RSM!" Konowa shouted, pointing at Lorian. "Bring me that man at once."

The one-eyed soldier was unceremoniously yanked out of ranks and double-timed over to stand panting in front of the Prince and Konowa.

"Private Meri Fwynd, Y-your Highness, sir, Major," he said, bringing his right hand up to his ruined eye in salute.

"Private, the Iron Elves were once, and will be again, the finest regiment in Her Majesty's Army," Konowa said. "Why should Prince Tykkin have a cripple such as yourself in the ranks?"

"I ain't no cripple, sir," he said, his face flushing red. "Sure, I lost an eye an' the ladies don't look at me the same no more, but I can still put a ball through a piece of meat at two hundred paces and I can march till my feet are bloody stumps, sir! I won't let you or the Prince down, I promise you that."

"We'll see," Konowa said noncommittally, secretly proud of the soldier's outburst. "Return to the ranks; dismissed."

As the man saluted again and double-timed it back to the regiment, the Prince turned to face Konowa.

"What answers am I likely to get if we poll the rest of the soldiers?" he asked, the sarcasm in his voice noticeably absent this time.

"Versions of Private Fwynd. The dwarf has teeth worth a lieutenant's commission, but he knows his business. Damn near-pardon me, sir-darn near talked the point off my other ear. In fact, he and the one with spectacles shot and killed that rakke the other night at the piquet lines. Of course, they're not all good lads. We have more than our fair share of louts, thieves, ruffians, and wastrels, but I'd bet my life that they'll hold when the time comes."

For several moments the Prince said nothing, staring at Konowa without really seeing him. Finally, he spoke.

"They had better. If they run, it won't be an enemy bayonet they have to worry about, but an Imperial noose." With that he turned and walked away.

"And all you'll have to worry about is them deciding whether to run you through before the enemy does," Konowa said under his breath.

He stood there for a long time, watching the soldiers who would once again carry the name Iron Elves into battle.