A Darkness Forged in Fire

TWENTY

T he sun's rays beat down on the regiment like bricks of light as it marched east across the vine-covered plain of Qundi. The trail they followed meandered like an old river, its bed a silty carpet of dust inches thick that spumed into the air with every footstep, plastering the soldiers until they were as gray as the earth. With each step they saw the effects of the endless battle to keep the trail open; great swathes of blackened, shriveled vegetation lined the trail and trunks lay hacked apart, the ends brown and desiccated. But wherever flame had burned or blade had cut, new growth had burst forth, sending tendrils back across the trail, forcing the regiment to employ ten soldiers and a pair of muraphants at a time to hack and trample a clear way forward.

It was a slow, exhausting march. Soldiers stumbled and fell, their skin as dry as parchment, their eyes rolled back in their heads. By late afternoon, one muraphant had had its supplies redistributed to other animals so that it could carry soldiers too weak to walk. Konowa had first asked Rallie if he might put some of the troops in the back of her wagon, but she had politely declined, suggesting they would be far more comfortable on the muraphants. After the twentieth soldier collapsed, the Prince was finally forced to order a halt and make camp for the night.

"Can they not even march a day's distance?" the Prince asked, pacing under the awning of his marquee and sipping wine from a crystal goblet.

Konowa forced his balled fists to unclench. "It is exceedingly hot during the day with no shade for cover, sir…and no horse to ride," he said, barely keeping his anger in check.

"They are soldiers of the Calahrian Empire, part of the finest army in the world. Do they need to be coddled? Should I call for carriages for all of them so that they may ride in comfort, growing soft and idle in the process?"

Like you? Konowa wanted to say, but instead shook his head. "I would merely suggest that we alter our marching schedule so that we rest during the heat of the day. We can march during the night and the early morning when it's cooler. It will do us little good to come to battle with soldiers dazed and weak and unable to fire a musket."

Prince Tykkin appeared to give this some thought, continuing to pace about, pausing only to refill his goblet. He didn't bother to offer any to Konowa, whether out of spite or from concern that more of his lead-cut crystal would wind up shattered on the ground.

"Very well, we shall rest until nightfall, then resume the march. Ah," the Prince said, his face brightening as he looked past Konowa, "here comes my scribe."

Konowa turned to see Rallie making her way toward the tent, her large gray cloak wrapped around her like a shroud. He wondered how it was that she didn't suffocate from the heat, but appeared to step as sprightly as if it were a cool, winter day.

"What weighty things does this war council discuss?" she asked, helping herself to a goblet and filling it to the brim.

The Prince beamed at what he interpreted as a compliment. "I was just telling my second in command that in order to better preserve the men's health and keep them fit for battle, we will henceforth march at night." He turned slightly away from Konowa as he said it.

Rallie pushed back the hood on her cloak, revealing a tangled mess of frizzy gray hair to which the concept of a comb was clearly foreign. "A compassionate and wise decision, Your Highness," she said, giving Konowa a wink. "Tell me, what provision have you made for drinkables out here on the plain?"

"I have several casks of that wine, as well as barrels of water," the Prince said, motioning for Rallie to take a seat on one of the wicker chairs set out.

"I meant for the men," she said.

"Yes, of course. They'll make use of the rivers we cross, no doubt," he said, clearly uninterested in the conversation.

"Make sure they boil it first, or the only story I'll be sending home will be a rather watery discourse," she said, a loud, throaty laugh spilling out from her mouth.

"Indeed," the Prince said, struggling to get the conversation on track. "I imagine you'll want my views on the raising of the regiment and our progress thus far. I know Her Majesty and Her loyal subjects will be interested to hear of it," he said pointedly.

"Absolutely, Prince Tykkin. In fact, Her Majesty seemed particularly interested in hearing about the major's resurrection," she said, downing the goblet with a practiced flick of her wrist.

Konowa kept his stare even and concentrated on forcing the corners of his mouth to remain still.

The Prince's cheeks turned bright red. "Unfortunately, he has other business he must attend to. Isn't that right, Major?"

"Actually, sir, everything is in order. I think I have the time."

"The initiation," the Prince said suddenly, giving Konowa a triumphant smile. "You were going to initiate the men into the regiment the traditional way, if I recall." He eyed his crystal and visibly relaxed. "Yes, I think it critical that you do it. Tonight. Perform whatever rites or ceremonies need to be done. I trust that I do not need to be involved."

Konowa knew when he'd been defeated. "Not at all, sir. Your Highness, ma'am," he said, saluting and marching out of the tent and into the thickening night.

He walked aimlessly among the impromptu camp, not at all happy with the arrangement. Swirling offshoots of leaves rose well above men's heads in several places, limiting visibility to a few feet at most, while the trunks themselves made walking about the camp more like navigating the great royal maze in Celwyn, or a bloody forest.

Cooking fires winked to life, and Konowa marveled that anyone could be hungry in this heat. Then again, soldiers-especially the old hands-knew that you ate while you could, never knowing when the next chance might present itself.

He hated to interrupt them now, but even though the Prince thought he was getting Konowa out of the way, Tykkin had unwittingly given him an opportunity to address the men directly and explain the heritage of the Iron Elves to them. It wasn't the way he would have liked to do it, but fools wait in vain for the perfect time.

He buttonholed the first sergeant he saw and told him what he wanted.

Twenty minutes later the regiment was squeezed into the largest open area they had.

Sergeant Lorian stood beside Konowa and kept twirling his halberd between his hands. "The Prince should be here for this."

"The Prince has other plans," Konowa said, hoping now that the Prince didn't reconsider and suddenly show up. The Iron Elves were Konowa's, not the property of that sorry excuse for nobility. "Just do what I say," he said, jumping up onto an overturned cooking pot. The murmur of voices quieted as he raised his hand to speak.

"I know you're tired after a long day's march, so I'll keep this brief."

Cheers rose up from the men, and then all was quiet again.

"The Iron Elves have a long and storied past in the Imperial Army, and in that past, the regiment recruited from my native land of the Hynta. Times have changed. What hasn't changed is the honor and pride that every soldier in the Iron Elves should feel. You are now part of the finest regiment that ever walked the face of the earth." It was hyperbole of a sort. The Iron Elves had been the finest regiment. This collection of soldiers was something else again.

"Many might ask why reform the Iron Elves at all? The answer, gentlemen, is out there," he said, waving his arm to the blackness beyond. "The Empire has many enemies, and those enemies are on the march. You'll have heard rumors, and I'll be straight with you, I don't know what to believe myself, but I do know this: The Iron Elves once again stand ready to defend the Empire, and that is no small thing."

There was the obligatory roar of approval.

"But to be in the Iron Elves and fight under its Colors is more than just wearing the uniform. There are traditions, an initiation that bonds you to the regiment, and to each other, a bond that may not be sundered no matter what enemy we face!"

The roar was louder now. Konowa had made sure a couple of wine casks had been tapped before he started talking. One should know one's crowd.

"So I ask you now to pledge yourself to this regiment and accept what fate awaits us, not just as soldiers, not even as elite soldiers, but as the Iron Elves!"

Shakos flew high and fists pumped the air. Konowa waved them quiet and pulled his saber from its scabbard. The troops followed suit, grabbing their bayonets and holding them in their right hands.

He leaped off the cooking pot and knelt on one knee. The regiment followed suit. Quiet reigned. A singular clarity gripped Konowa and he saw his regiment again, his Iron Elves, about to be reborn.

Konowa turned to Lorian and nodded for him to begin.

"Iron Elves! Ground your weapons!"

Konowa thrust his saber into the earth as the soldiers did the same with their bayonets. A sensation, one of crystal purity of purpose, washed over Konowa.

The regiment spoke with one voice:

"We do not fear the flame, though it burns us.

We do not fear the fire, though it consumes us.

And we do not fear its light, though it reveals the darkness of our souls,

For therein lies our power!"

The silence that followed reverberated like the aftereffects of a cannon firing. In the stillness Konowa was whole again-he was home. He looked out at the soldiers before him. These were his brothers, his Iron Elves. Something greater than geography or even race united them, and nothing would break that bond. Not this time.

He was about to stand and draw his saber from the earth when the faintest of breezes brushed along the ruined top of his left ear. A sliver of cold pricked his chest where the acorn lay in its pouch. He looked down at the ground around the saber. It was surrounded by a thin crust of frost. He watched, amazed, as the frost spiderwebbed out to race across the ground and touch each bayonet at the same time, and for the briefest of moments, each soldier disappeared into shadow. It happened so fast that he wasn't sure it had happened at all. He blinked and looked again. Now there was no frost anywhere, no breeze.

"Uh, Major, how long do we need to do this?" Lorian whispered in his ear.

Konowa shook his head and stood, drawing his saber from the earth. Lorian ordered the regiment to do the same.

"You are now, all of you, Iron Elves! You are the fire-forged!"

The troops roared their approval one last time, whether in agreement with him or just happy to be done and be able to get back to their cook fires he didn't know. Konowa cleaned off his blade and sheathed it, staring at the ground.

"You didn't see anything odd?" Konowa asked Lorian.

Lorian looked angry. "Odd, sir? Why, was one of the men fooling around? I'll deal with him, sir, just point him out to me."

Konowa waved him down. "No, nothing like that-the men were splendid. Never mind, I think I just need some sleep." He saluted and watched Lorian walk off into the dark.

Sleep. He'd said it to cover for his own foolishness, but he could use a good night's worth. He patted the area over his chest and was surprised that he felt nothing. Funny, maybe it really was his imagination.

He had started walking toward his tent when something tugged at the edges of his awareness. He stopped, cocking his head to one side to listen. He spun slowly where he stood and tried to listen, to feel the ebb and flow of life around him. It was pointless. The camp was once again awash with noise and commotion, mixing with the more natural rhythm of the land around them so that he could discern nothing but the typical chaos. Except for the all-too-rare moments like the one of a minute ago, it had been that way his entire life, feeling adrift among a people that saw, and felt, the world differently than he, whether it was elves or men. The more he thought about it, the more he came to believe he was trying to see more than there really was.

Konowa kicked at the dirt and began walking again. Sleep could wait. He considered searching out Kritton, but quickly decided against it. After the grueling march of today and the initiation of so many into the Iron Elves, his mood would hardly be improved. He heard laughter and looked around, spotting the muraphants clustered near Rallie's wagon. Despite the abundance of vegetation, the animals were reluctant to stray far from the cook fires and instead huddled in a single mass near the brindos, who for their part circled around the muraphants in what appeared to be a guard-dog posture.

He looked back to the fire and spotted Visyna sitting with Lorian and a group of soldiers. Well, that didn't take long. Seeing her tonight was perhaps not a great idea either, but after all that time alone, he was ready for change. Besides, majors outranked regimental sergeant majors-he'd find something to keep Lorian busy with.

He started toward Visyna, shouting out and waving as he went. Lorian stiffened, pulled back from her, and began talking to a soldier nearby. Konowa wasn't sure if he wanted to feel jealous or not. Later , he scolded himself. For now he would tell Lorian to double the watch. That would get him out of the way and take care of Konowa's nagging suspicion that something just wasn't right. He ran the back of a hand across his forehead and realized he was no longer sweating.

The acorn under his jacket felt like a block of ice pressed against his skin and he gasped. There was something out there, just outside the glow of the fires.

He was almost right. The first scream came from inside the camp as hell opened up and engulfed them whole.