A Darkness Forged in Fire

EIGHTEEN

T he regiment marched all morning until the sun burned directly overhead, heating the trapped air inside their shakos to furnace-like temperatures. Dust leaped from the ground with each footfall, covering their once-immaculate uniforms in a thick coating. When the order was given to halt, the soldiers quickly sought what shade they could find beside the trunks of the twisting vines. A particular stink wafted up from the vegetation, but it was still preferable to standing in the heat.

"Sweet goblin-gonads," Yimt gasped, collapsing with his back against a springy mass of vines. He spat out the leaf he'd kept clenched in his teeth to keep his bottom lip from burning under the glare of the sun and uncorked one of his canteens. In a single motion, he poured a long draught down his throat, then closed his eyes and sighed. He was the picture of contentment; sprawled on his back, head resting against his pack, drukar by his side, and the wicked-looking shatterbow lying across his lap. He pulled his "splinter" from its sheath in his stocking and started cleaning his fingernails, then used it to prop up his shako. He opened his eyes and stared at Alwyn.

"How far did they say we was going today?" he asked.

Alwyn tried to answer, but his mouth was so dry from inhaling dust that all he could manage was a cough.

"Something about some river," the soldier with one eye offered, sitting down beside them to rest his back against the vine. "We was making for a river."

Yimt shook his head, then undid the leather chinstrap on his shako, twisting the wings so he could set it upside-down beside him. He ran a hand through his greasy black hair and Alwyn noticed that the air above his head actually shimmered.

"Normally, a river sounds nice, but not in this despicable land. Nasty things, all thick and brown and not fit to drink for neither dwarf nor beast," Yimt said. He paused in his head-scratching to pull out a squirming bug between thumb and forefinger. "Would you say that's a flea or a louse?"

"Louse," Meri said, assessing the bug with his one eye.

Yimt looked down at the tiny bug and scratched his head with his other hand. "I don't know about that. No offense now, lad, but you are only giving it half an appraisal."

"I know I've been feeling weird since we got into these vines. Something don't feel right," Alwyn said, wriggling his shoulders inside his uniform. "I've got this creepy-crawly feeling like my skin isn't my own, you know?"

Yimt nodded. "Definitely ticks, they're a lot more energetic than lice. Course, fleas can get right jumpy at times, too." He struggled to sit up a little, then squished the tiny bug between thumb and forefinger. "First kill of the expedition. Whatever it was, it's dead now. Feel better?"

Alwyn shrugged and tried to think of something else.

"Oh, where are me manners?" Yimt suddenly said. "Say, Meri, is it? This here pile of complaints is Ally."

Meri stuck out his hand and shook Alwyn's. "Pleased to meet you. So, what do you think of our new regiment so far?"

Alwyn took a drink from his own canteen, the warm water turning the dust in his mouth to mud. "I don't know, I got some strange feelings about it."

"I know what you mean," Meri said. "Things ain't entirely right, if you get my meaning."

"Troll pudding," Yimt said, unbuttoning his jacket to scratch his chest. "I been thinking more about it, and you know, we are some lucky elves, especially for some skinny men and an old dwarf like me. Our knight superior is none other than the Queen's son himself. You think the old bird would send him out to get killed? After all the educating and training they put into his noggin? She ain't about to have it dashed in by some native chucking a spear. I figure we're just out here to show the flag, let the Prince play at soldier for a bit then back we go to a nice safe camp. And you notice how airy things feel marching in these caernas?" Yimt asked, moving his scratching in a southerly direction. "It's freedom it is, specially in this infernal place. Feels darn right to me."

"I think I'm blind," Alwyn said in mock horror, turning away as Yimt continued to scratch. He caught Meri staring at him with his one good eye and suddenly felt ashamed. "Er, I didn't mean nothing by it, Meri," he said.

"That's all right. There are a few advantages, you know."

"Really, like what?" Alwyn asked, ignoring Yimt, who was making a big display of rearranging his caerna.

For an answer, Meri lifted the patch over his eye and pulled a small snuff box out of the socket. "Only place I ever found to keep it dry," he said, holding the little silver box out to Yimt and Alwyn.

"That's okay, thanks," Alwyn said, struggling to keep the water in his stomach from charging back up his throat.

"Don't mind if I do," Yimt said, taking a pinch and sticking it between his steel-colored teeth and lower lip. "Adds a bit of extra kick to the crute."

Alwyn was wondering if anything bothered Yimt when he sensed a presence and turned to see Corporal Kritton standing nearby. Ever since they'd killed the rakke the other night, the corporal had withdrawn into himself, barely talking to anyone. Normally, Alwyn would have enjoyed that, but there was something unsettling about the look in the elf's eyes, something not quite right. Before Alwyn knew what he was doing, he found himself calling out to him.

"Hey, Corporal, how far we going today?"

The elf turned toward Alwyn with a look of pure hatred. Kritton's upper lip twitched and his fists balled up, then he abruptly spun on his heel and walked away, disappearing from sight behind a large vine. Alwyn found his mouth was half open and closed it with care, taking a deep breath as his heart started beating again.

"Well that's just rude, that is," Yimt said. He'd reached over and taken the ramrod from Alwyn's musket and was busy scratching himself underneath his stockings. "A nice lad like yourself tries to be social and engage in polite conversation and what do you get for it? Our Corp just ain't the same he ain't, not since he met up with the major."

Meri leaned closer. "I heard that he has it in for the major on account of the regiment being disbanded, but that's not the half of it. Hrem over in B Company said that we're not going to relieve the garrison at Luuguth Jor at all. There's some kind of treasure buried there, some jewel called the Star of something, and the Prince is going to dig it up and take it back to Celwyn. All the talk about rakkes and the Shadow Monarch is just a smokescreen."

Yimt stopped scratching. "Smokescreen my aunt's hairy chest. Ally and I killed one of them beasts sure as I'm sitting here now. They're real, and that means that elf-witch across the ocean is, too, and She's up to something."

"But why reform the Iron Elves?" Alwyn asked. A terrible thought came to him. "You don't think they mean for us to fight Her?"

Before Yimt or Meri could answer, sergeants were shouting for the regiment to fall in.

Alwyn grabbed his musket and levered himself up. He turned to give a hand to Yimt, who was struggling to rise.

"This heat too much for you?" Alwyn asked jokingly, secretly worried that the old dwarf might not be up to the rigors of a long march. Light infantry regiments typically marched at a pace of 120 steps per minute, significantly faster than the 75 of a regular regiment. The Iron Elves, when they had been all elves, were reported to have sustained 150 steps a minute for a full day's march, but Alwyn knew that was impossible…at least, he knew there was no way he could do it.

"I'll march you young pups straight into the ground," Yimt grunted, finally getting to his feet.

"You were caught in the vine. Look," Meri said, pulling a long strand of vegetation from Yimt's belts.

"Well I'll be boiled in a witch's pot," Yimt said, holding the vine up to get a better look. "If I didn't know better I'd say the bugger was trying to keep us here." He threw it to the dirt and ground it in with the heel of his boot. Yimt bent down and grabbed his shako, taking a quick peek inside before jamming it on his head. "They don't pay us enough, not by half," he said, stepping quickly away from their temporary shelter.

As they walked back toward the dusty road where the companies were forming up, Alwyn couldn't help looking over his shoulder. The vines remained where they were, a tangled green mass of rotten-smelling vegetation. So why did he feel that if he turned his back on them, they'd pounce like a dragon on a goat?