A Darkness Forged in Fire

TWENTY-THREE

T en mounds of dirt marked the graves of the soldiers killed by the faeraug attack, the tenth having succumbed to his wounds during the night. It had been tough digging, the soil dry and hard-packed and shot through with roots. After a bit of enterprising bartering by the troops assigned to dig the graves, three muraphants were enlisted to gouge the area with their tusks. Even with their help, it took several hours and the graves were only just finished in time to lay the first casualties of the Iron Elves to rest before another first for the newly reformed regiment began.

Alwyn said a silent prayer for Meri and then in spite of himself another one for Corporal-now-Private Kritton as the elf was marched out to a clearing in the vines past the fresh graves. The regiment stood around the clearing in a three-sided hollow U facing inward. The elfkynan drivers and the correspondent, Miss Synjyn, stood off to one side just behind the troops. A brindo honked and was answered by a muraphant's trumpet, breaking the silence that smothered the clearing.

A sergeant held Kritton at each elbow, but the prisoner gave no indication of wanting to escape. He'd already removed, or had removed, his jacket and shako, so that all that covered his upper body was a brown cotton undershirt. His long black hair was tied in a queue at the back of his neck by a simple leather thong. He kept his head up and straight, showing no sign of what he was thinking as the three walked toward the center of the U where four halberds were lashed together forming an inverted pyramid. Their steps stirred up plumes of black ash, the remnants of the burning faeraugs, their smell still thick in the air.

On reaching the halberds the sergeants stripped off his shirt, and then tied his hands above his head to the wooden staffs. They quickly tied his ankles to the shafts and then stepped away. One of the sergeants pulled a piece of leather from his pocket and offered it to Kritton to bite on, but the elf only glared at him. Shrugging, the sergeant put it back and walked away, announcing in a loud voice that the prisoner was secure and ready for his sentence to be carried out.

Prince Tykkin stepped forward and looked around at the assembled soldiers. He was dressed in a new uniform, his silver-green coatee a bright exception among the dust- and ash-covered uniforms of the regiment. It was a matter of course that officers should look better than their men, and Alwyn supposed a Prince should look better than his officers, too. The major stood a few feet away from him and appeared even darker and wilder than he had when Alwyn had first laid eyes on him back at the camp just a few short days ago. The major kept reaching up to adjust his left lapel and then rest his hand on the pommel of his saber. Alwyn wondered if it was some kind of ritual.

"The Iron Elves have been blooded," the Prince said without preamble. His voice was a bit high, as if he was unsure how loudly to speak. "We have suffered death and injury, as is to be expected in battle. What is not to be expected, or tolerated, however, is disobedience in the face of a direct order. No matter who, or what, your enemy is, you will perform your duty to the fullest at all times." He paused and looked around again at the troops. "This regiment was written off the rolls of the Imperial Army once, to its great shame. That will not happen again! Any soldier, no matter what his rank, will follow my orders and those passed down through the chain of command without question, or pay the price." With that he turned on his heel and walked out of the U, never once looking back.

Sergeant Major Lorian stepped forward. "The prisoner will now receive his punishment. And I don't want no fainters in the ranks or you'll feel the sting of the lash next."

The troops stiffened at the threat. Alwyn swallowed and looked straight ahead.

"Private Renwar, step forward."

Alwyn couldn't move. A murmur rose up in the ranks and was quickly silenced by the glare of the sergeant major.

"Renwar, step forward!"

Alwyn hesitantly took a step, then another.

Lorian walked over to him and handed him a rawhide whip. "Easy does it now, boy," Lorian whispered. "Aim for his shoulders and don't lay it on too heavy."

Alwyn looked back to Yimt, who shook his head helplessly. Alwyn nodded and walked toward Kritton without being able to feel his legs. His entire body had gone numb. His heart thudded in his ears like a berserk muraphant stampeding across a flagstone floor. He knew the regiment was still standing all around him, but he couldn't see anyone. It was as if his entire being had been boiled down to the rawhide whip held in his right hand and the bare panel of brown skin that was Corporal Kritton's back five yards in front of him.

Alwyn squeezed the handle hard, knowing the rough braid was creating a patchwork of red-and-white flesh in his hand, yet no feeling passed through into his skin. He continued to stare at Kritton's back and was utterly mesmerized by it. Ribbons of muscle flowed over shoulder blades, sweeping down toward the valley of his spine like water-polished rocks. He was looking at the very essence of nature, seeing in one elf's back the simple majesty of the natural world, and now he had to destroy it. It didn't matter that Kritton was a despicable person, probably even deserved to be flogged for a thousand other crimes, if not this one. Alwyn, for the first time in his life, was going to deliberately inflict harm on another creature. He'd fought for his life against the faeraugs, but this, this was different. This was cold-blooded.

The full realization of that hit Alwyn like a lightning bolt and he staggered for a step before regaining his balance. This was the army. This was life. Whatever was clean would be made dirty. Whatever was whole would be broken. It was a revelation Alwyn was entirely unprepared for.

You'll look sharp in a uniform, lad, the recruiting sergeant had said, and Alwyn had believed it, wanted to believe it. Alwyn's father had agreed, noting the prize every young boy yearns for: It'll make a man out of you. Mr. Yuimi, the little elf tailor down the road, however, had shaken his head very sadly when Alwyn had told him the news. That single, silent head shake had hurt more than anything else. Only now did he begin to understand what the little elf had known.

The RSM cleared his throat and looked at Alwyn, who could only nod in response. "On my count, twenty lashes and not one more…begin!"

As Alwyn drew his hand back he tried to imagine the small cobbler's shop and the joy his visits had elicited in both the cobbler and himself, but it had disappeared from his mind. All that remained was the small, stooped figure of a gray-haired elf shaking his head sadly. Alwyn looked at Kritton's back through tear-blurred eyes and brought his arm forward.