A Darkness Forged in Fire

SEVENTEEN

N ow this is a sendoff," Yimt said as he marched beside Alwyn. "The Duke of Rakestraw is all right, even if he is a higher-than-thou."

Alwyn looked over and down to see the dwarf's head turned to the right, watching the band of the Fourteenth Household Cavalry play them out of camp. Their instruments gleamed under a pale blue sky dominated by the fiery white sun. Alwyn didn't recognize the tune, and couldn't tell if it was for good luck or good riddance, but it was bouncy and loud and it felt good, especially as it took his mind off the heat.

"I thought the cavalry had gone west," Alwyn said, mopping sweat from his face with the back of a sleeve. He then ran a hand over his face and held it out in front of him, pleased to see that the jacket's dye hadn't run. Maybe there were benefits to being in a regiment with a Prince as its colonel.

Yimt turned back to face straight ahead, the wings on his shako flapping slightly as he strode along. "Charging around at their own shadows like a flock of witless pigeons," he said.

Alwyn nodded, his eyes drawn to the sound of fluttering cloth up ahead. They had unfurled the Colors. Perhaps only the Queen Herself commanded more loyalty than the pair of square flags each regiment was given. The flags, always cotton with fine wool stitching (silk was for ladies' unmentionables, the recruiting sergeant had said, buying Alwyn another beer and pushing the enlistment parchment in front of him), hung from eight-foot-tall halberds carried by two color sergeants designated to protect them with their lives. Six very tough-looking soldiers, and that was saying something considering the recruiting pool, marched beside them, tasked in turn with protecting the color sergeants. It wasn't much of a walk to say that in turn the regiment looked after them. To lose a Color on the field of battle was worse even than running in the face of the enemy, so long as you took the Colors with you.

The dominant flag was the Queen's Colors, replete with the royal cypher of intricately woven letters and leafy garlands on a shimmering silver-green background. Rumor had it that the silver in the flag was real spun metal, but its worth as a symbol far outweighed however many ounces of precious metal might have been contained in it. The second was the Regimental Colors, a black flag with the national ensign of Calahr in the top left corner, while the main body of the flag featured a mountain range outlined in silver above a dark-green forest. Elvish script arced across this in steel-colored embroidery, which read Г†ri Mekah -Into the Fire. Alwyn felt both pride and fear at those words.

"Blast, the music stopped already," Yimt said.

Alwyn listened and realized the band wasn't playing anymore, but a new and exceedingly unpleasant sound had taken its place.

"Them ain't the Iron Elves! Look more like the Rusty Remains to me!"

"Hey you! You, the short, fat elf. What happened, did you fall out of a tree on your head?"

"We can relax now, boys, the Steel Faeries are here to save us."

Alwyn gripped his musket and glared back at the soldiers.

Yimt chuckled and patted Alwyn on the hand. "Pay them no mind, Ally, they're just jealous. Besides, remember that notion, sticks and stones and all that? There ain't nothing they can say that should bother you."

"Nice dresses, ladies!"

Yimt was a small, fast blur as he charged out of the ranks. "It's a caerna, you flea-bitten jockey!" he yelled, shaking his fist in the air to shouts of laughter.

Several band members dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs and clutched their sides as Yimt stomped around shouting curses that involved physical acts of self-pleasure that Alwyn figured not even a wizard using all his powers could accomplish.

"Why don't you play us a song under a full moon!" Yimt yelled, turning and bending over to reveal his fleshy dwarf posterior to the startled cavalrymen.

It was the Iron Elves' turn to laugh as several of them followed suit, offering their own cheeky salute.

Yimt darted back into the ranks and resumed his place beside Alwyn. "I stand corrected," he said, laughing merrily as he marched along. "Now that was a sendoff! Here, how about a song?"

"вЂThe Warlock's Lament'!" someone shouted.

"I don't know that one," Alwyn said.

"No worries, Ally, just follow along."

With that, the dwarf burst forth in what Alwyn could only assume he thought was singing, immediately joined by the rest of the regiment:

There once was a warlock old and randy

Who fancied a witch sweeter than candy

Beware old graybeard, watch out what you wish for!

May I take a dip in your cauldron sometime

Asked the warlock slyly pouring some wine

Beware old graybeard, watch out what you wish for!

If you polish my jugs, I'll grant you a wish

Rub my wand, said he, and I'll eat from your dish

Beware old graybeard, watch out what you wish for!

So he ate what she served, and she rubbed what he had

And nine months later his new name was Dad!

Beware old graybeard, beware!

New stanzas were added, with Yimt supplying most of the more colorful ones. Alwyn could only shake his head and wonder how high the dwarf might have risen in the army if he had put his creative energy to better use. Still, Yimt seemed happy, even if his crystal ball had a few cracks in it. The dwarf sure knew the ins and outs of army life better than anyone Alwyn had ever met. All in all, it was better having Yimt as a friend than an enemy.

"Now that's got the blood up," Yimt said, taking a break from singing to grab his canteen and have a drink. Alwyn took a quick look around, but no corporal or sergeant was in sight.

"Relax, Ally, we're in the field now," the dwarf said, running a sleeve across his mouth after downing a prodigious slug. "The first rule out here is to keep yourself fit to fight. Button polishers and crease keepers don't amount to much when you're in the line and there's a horde of screamin' natives comin' at you. This is the last time in a long time we'll shine like this.

"Take a look at our new kit, would you?" Yimt directed, waving his right hand around, his left cradling his shatterbow against his shoulder. "Sure, looks all fancy now; the silver-green as fresh as spring clover, all the leather bits polished, the shako badge a-glittering, bright silver piping on our jackets, not a frayed bastion loop, and every pewter button in place with nary a chunk of wood as a replacement…yet. Even these fancy socks look spiffy without any holes in them." He raised his legs higher as he marched so Alwyn could get a good look at the black wool stockings with their band of embroidered green leaves circling the top just below the knee.

"Yup, take a good look, Ally, and remember this. Won't none of it stop a musket ball or a spear point. You can shine like a crystal ball in moonlight, but it ain't going to make a spit of difference to that arrow shot from two hundred yards away."

Alwyn felt a sudden nostalgia for his old, worn uniform. "So are you saying I shouldn't care about taking care of my stuff? The corporal would have my head."

Yimt looked up at Ally as if he'd sprouted tusks. "Is there not enough air up there? I'm saying you got to focus on the important things: musket, powder, boots, blades, water, and victuals. Sure, you take care of your kit, but just so's a corporal don't write you up, see? Look," he said, pointing to his chest, "see how the cross belts cover up most of the buttons? Well, when you're out here, if you have to polish, you only polish the ones that the corporal can see, see?"

Alwyn did, though he thought he'd still polish every button just in case. "And that's the key to surviving out here?"

Yimt marched along in silence for a minute, and Alwyn was going to repeat the question when the dwarf finally answered.

"Ally, the key to that is simple," Yimt said. There wasn't a trace of humor in his voice. "Wherever Death is swinging his scythe, you be somewhere else."

"But, we're infantry, we're always going to be where Death is."

"Then carry a bigger scythe," Yimt said, patting his shatterbow.

Alwyn gripped his musket a little tighter and hoped it would be big enough.

The plain simmered like a skillet over an open fire. The sun was shining off the ebony spikes of cactus thorns sprinkled throughout the vines, causing them to twinkle with something close to malevolence at the approaching flesh. Prince Tykkin had decided on this route, deeming it the least likely to be watched by enemy scouts. Konowa could see why.

The Prince led the regiment on a magnificent charger named Rolling Thunder, a silvery-gray, four-year-old Mernian gelding, a breed rare and much sought after among royalty and wealth for their precious-metal coloring. That Konowa knew this much about a horse was thanks entirely to the lengthy lectures Jaal had subjected him to over the years about the qualities and temperament of various horse breeds. It bordered on criminal in Konowa's eyes that a soldier got little more than a piece of silver a month in service to the Empire, while a horse like the Prince's could be worth hundreds of pieces of gold.

It was a bloody great waste of money, as far as Konowa could tell. Dust from the road had already dulled the animal's coat to pewter, and a large spotted animal skin made into a shabraque covered a large portion of its body, leaving very little of the horse's coat to be seen. More gold down the well cushioned the future King's behind. His saddle was wrapped in a thick, red fur from a bear the Prince himself had dispatched on an earlier expedition, which probably meant the Prince had been allowed to walk up and stab it with his sword after the poor animal had been dead for a day. And just in case that bit of tack didn't woo the damsels, the Prince had had the bridle and reins fitted with ornately decorated wrought silver and burnished brass. Konowa gave it less than a week before some enterprising soldier had pocketed a few bits of the finery.

Konowa squirmed in his saddle and looked over his shoulder at the troops marching behind them, then quickly faced front again. His embarrassment at riding when the soldiers had only their feet to move them was galling, but the Prince was adamant that they ride as befit the station of officers, so Konowa found himself bouncing along most unhappily on a large black gelding named Zwindarra, a loan from the Duke of Rakestraw. Unlike the glittering Prince and his steed, Konowa's tack was simple, sturdy brown leather, the shabraque a quickly converted caerna with the regimental crest sewn on either side. The saddle itself was covered with the softened hide of an animal Konowa thought might just be skunk dragon, no doubt a parting jest of Jaal's.

Konowa looked ahead to their chosen path with barely concealed dread. Everywhere he looked, vines lay across the plain like one great slithering mass heaped on top of itself in looping coils of green sinew. In places the stems were as thick as banyan trees, creating impenetrable walls every bit as daunting as those of a stone-and-mortar castle. The fortress at Luuguth Jor lay two hundred miles to the east through this morass, a journey of at least two weeks with no further impediments beyond what nasty surprises the land itself could spring. Konowa doubted, however, that nature would be their only foe.

"I think I'll check on the troops, sir," Konowa said, motioning back at the regiment.

"I won't have them mothered, Major," the Prince said, but waved him away all the same.

"Sir," Konowa replied, and swung Zwindarra in a short arc to allow the regiment to march past.

"Pasty twit," Konowa muttered, watching the Prince ride on. Unlike His Highness, he worried about the morale of the troops, but after the initial shock of the caerna, their sense of pride in their new regiment began to take over. He'd sensed as much as he'd seen their backs grow a little straighter, their chins lift until they were marching with purpose, only beginning to feel the mystique of belonging to the Iron Elves, no matter that most of them had never even seen an elf up close before in their lives.

Konowa readjusted himself in the saddle, patted the spot on his jacket where the pouch lay underneath, and watched the regiment pass. They marched in column, six elves-men, he corrected himself-abreast, their winged shakos bobbing in time. White flashes of knee sparkled where legs not normally exposed to the sun now gleamed between the hems of caernas and the edge of stockings.

A few shouted greetings to him as they marched past and Konowa nodded and smiled. Seeing soldiers once again wearing the uniform of the Iron Elves stirred mixed emotions in him, his mind seeing elves he once knew where a new and unfamiliar face now marched. I won't fail you again, he silently vowed.

"You almost look like you belong in a saddle, Swift Dragon," said the Duke of Rakestraw, sidling up to Konowa on a huge roan.

"Jaal! What are you doing here?"

"You didn't think I'd let you slip away without saying good-bye, now did you?" the Duke asked, smiling.

"I thought maybe you were here to check on your investment," Konowa said. "You let me drink your wine, bought my commission to major, and loaned me one of your own horses. I've only been out of the forest for a week and already my debt to you knows no bounds."

Jaal slapped his knee and both horses started. "Bah! You'd do the same for me; think nothing of it. Besides, Zwindarra here is no ordinary steed. His great-great-mare was a unicorn, and he's got a bit of the mystic about him. If you get into a bind, he'll stand firm and won't veer."

"Just like his master, then," Konowa said, leaning down to pat the horse on the neck. Zwindarra swung his head back and tried to bite Konowa's hand.

Jaal roared and shook his head, his red hair flying madly from underneath his helmet. "Oh, and he's a tad temperamental, but I figure you two should cancel each other out."

"Your kindness will not be forgotten."

The Duke laughed some more. "Just bring yourself and this motley crew back again and I'll consider your debt paid in full."

Konowa felt the sting, even though it wasn't Jaal's intention.

"It's a new day, my friend, a new beginning. They'll shape up, you'll see. By the way," the Duke said casually, "Lorian tells me you had a meeting with a veteran of the regiment."

For a long moment, all that could be heard was the creak of the saddle and the clomping of hooves. "I don't blame him, Jaal. I hate me, too."

The Duke's gloved hand came down hard on the front of Konowa's saddle as he leaned close to whisper in his ear. "You listen to me, laddie. You take that guilt and you shoot it, stab it, and bury it deep. The past is done. There's three hundred soldiers that are alive and would like to stay that way. Don't matter if they're elves or not. Don't matter if they like you or not. You don't have the luxury of feeling sorry for yourself or letting others carry around thoughts of revenge. First chance you get, you deal with him, hard."

He let go of the saddle and straightened up, smiling once again. "But look on the bright side. Those elfkynan get one look at your lads and their shapely legs and they'll die of laughter and everyone will come back a hero."

There was a sudden blaring of trumpets. The noise rattled around Konowa's head like marbles in an empty iron pot. Both he and Jaal turned in their saddles to look back over the path they had come.

A group of large brown animals with huge flapping ears, long trunks, and great curving tusks of black ivory trundled through the vines with no concern for where the path might be. "Muraphants," Konowa said, already feeling the ground shake beneath Zwindarra.

"Ten of them," the Duke said, shaking his head in clear amazement. "I passed them on my way out here. They're loaded with enough supplies for this little mission to last a year, or until His Highness gets bored."

"As long as none of them are carrying Sala brandy," Konowa remarked. As the animals drew closer, he was able to make out the huge wicker panniers strapped to the muraphants' sides and saw that they were absolutely bulging.

"Still room enough to bring back a bit of treasure, though," Jaal said casually.

Konowa looked closely at his friend. "Do you think a Star could really be there?"

Jaal shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows. I've had a devil of a time trying to get any scouts up north with this new Viceroy in place, but I've heard enough to tell me a myth about a Star is the least of your worries."

Konowa nodded, further talk pointless as the muraphants rumbled past. Atop each beast, just behind its head, sat a rider wielding a long feather. Whenever the rider wanted the animal to turn, the elfkynan would touch the feather to the muraphant's appropriate ear and the animal would respond by walking in that direction.

Zwindarra began to prance and Konowa had to squeeze hard with his knees to keep his balance. Jaal leaned over and whispered something into the gelding's ear, and he immediately calmed down.

"You'll have to show me how to do that," Konowa said.

Jaal looked absolutely shocked, lurching in his saddle as if struck by lightning. "You're the elf-aren't you in tune with nature? Speaking with animals, making magical weapons from trees and all that?"

Konowa took a hand off the reins and pointed at his chest, raising his eyebrows at his friend as he did so. " Iron elf. I…R…O…N. You're thinking of one of those squirrelly elves that eats berries and wears bark undergarments."

The Duke laughed, his eyes watering with the effort. A muraphant trumpeted in response, and the two friends nudged their horses out of the way as the massive beasts of burden rumbled past toward the marching column of soldiers up ahead.

Konowa craned his neck to take a look at the riders as they went by and recognized one.

"Visyna!"

She looked down at him but did not wave, instead tapping her muraphant with her feather and steering it toward him.

Konowa pulled back on the reins-Zwindarra whinnied and turned a baleful eye on him, but allowed himself to be nudged forward toward the huge animal and its waving trunk.

"What are you doing here?" Konowa yelled up at her when she was alongside.

She brushed the hair out of her face before answering, and Konowa was struck again by her beauty. She was dressed much the same as she had been in the forest, but instead of sandals wore toughened canvas boots. Her hands and arms were covered by wide-cuffed gauntlets of a silky material that looked like skillfully woven leaves. And there was something else, a coldness in her look that he didn't understand.

"The Prince commandeered these animals and supplies for this expedition," she said, not really looking at him, "and as my father's representative, I am coming along to safeguard our property. Besides, you have no surgeon, and I know how to treat the sick and wounded."

"This is hardly the kind of expedition a woman should be on," Konowa said. "We're sure to see battle."

"Then all the more reason for my coming along," she said, giving the feather a snap so that the muraphant veered closer, startling Zwindarra. The horse took a nip at its trunk, eliciting a bellowing roar from the beast.

"He always was the charmer," the Duke said, sidling his horse up to Zwindarra and giving the horse a pat. "Jaal Edrahar, Duke of Rakestraw, my lady," he said, looking up at Visyna. He doffed his helm and bowed low in the saddle in a single fluid motion that never failed to impress the ladies.

"Ah yes, the drinking partner. Shouldn't you be leading an expedition in the other direction?" she said, giving the feather a swish and swinging the muraphant back toward the rest of the herd as it followed after the regiment.

"A pleasure, my lady!" the Duke called after her, laughing loudly as he put his helmet back on. "And she only tried to kill you once, you say?" he asked Konowa.

"I didn't get a chance to turn on the charm," Konowa said, watching the muraphants disappear in a cloud of dust.

"Good lord, man, you had better start soon! I'm beginning to think there isn't a soul in this regiment who doesn't want to have a go at you."

"And my mother always said I played well with others."

"They weren't children, they were wolves. Didn't you wonder why the other tykes had furry tails?"

"I never did fit in with the tribe," Konowa said, a feeling of melancholy washing over him.

"You don't fit in anywhere, but when has that ever stopped you?"

It was Konowa's turn to laugh. "When I was seven, I was out running the hills when I came across a traveling bomak. He said he would tell me my future if I would pick him some apples high up in a tree. I did as he asked, he thanked me, and then he said, вЂOne day, you are going to die.'"

"You should listen to your father," Jaal said, "get in touch with nature. Maybe that will give you a better attitude about things."

"Take my word for it, Jaal," Konowa said, "up close it's just a whole lot of dirt."

The Duke smiled ruefully at his friend and held out his hand. "Swift Dragon, you are without a doubt the least elvish elf I have ever met."

Konowa took the Duke's hand. "And you're the prettiest man I know."

For a long time after the Duke had ridden away to the west, Konowa held on to a smile, the sound of his friend's laughter ringing in his ears.