A Darkness Forged in Fire

TWENTY-SEVEN

A regiment on the march is not a quiet beast.

Metal-banded canteens clattered against wooden musket stocks with each thud of a hobnailed boot. Breath whistled through noses misshapen by barstools and barmaids, and between missing teeth, courtesy of same, laced with wit, pleas, groans, and curses. Spit and matter less liquid flew freely, expelled with a rasping smack of sun-cracked lips, leaving a trail of wet stains and gaining the attention of insects large and small who converged on the sweating mass in a thrumming buzz. The serried rows of soldiers took up a ragged applause in response as hundreds of hands slapped away their tormentors, cursing each and every one.

Accompanied, as the Iron Elves were, by horses, brindos, and a baggage train of muraphants, there was the added sound of creaking wagon axles, the rhythmic friction of jute ropes, the clink of bridles and bits, the swish of tails, the clomp of hooves-cloven and not-and the respective calls of animals as annoyed with their current lot as the soldiers that marched with them.

You'd have to be deaf not to hear a regiment on the march. Or dead.

The order to halt echoed down the line, and the regiment creaked to a ragged stop. Nervousness washed over the men like an incoming tide.

Alwyn strained to hear some kind of commotion up ahead. It would be dark in another hour or so, and even though the faeraugs had not bothered them again, he still expected to see them every night when the sun went down.

There was no sound beyond a few coughs and a single bellow from a muraphant. The soldiers near Alwyn started to fidget and look around them, scanning the vines for movement. Teeter, a former sailor with a limp, had his pipe lit in an instant. He tilted to the side as if leaning into a stiff breeze, his leathery face beaming satisfaction. Another soldier took off his shako, revealing an apple-sized divot missing from the back of his head. He saw Alwyn staring and glared back, giving him a very rude hand gesture to boot.

"Don't mind Scolly," a third soldier said, his face temporarily hidden behind a large, pink hanky he was using to mop the sweat from his face. When he removed it, Alwyn saw the round, chubby face of a middle-aged man who looked as if he should have been at home delivering milk.

"Alwyn Renwar," Alwyn said, sticking out his hand.

"I know. Poor luck having to flog the elf, but from what I hear, he deserved it."

Alwyn nodded and said nothing.

"Alik Senerson, by the way," the soldier said, shaking his hand, "formerly of the Queen's Tamburian Guards." His face betrayed his offense a moment later in reaction to Alwyn's open-mouthed response. "Not all Guardsmen are six-foot oaks; there are a few normal-sized men in the ranks. I was the pay clerk…until a small accounting discrepancy, that is."

"Oh," Alwyn said. "So what's the deal with that fellow over there?"

Alik dabbed at his face again with the pink hanky and nodded toward Scolly. "That miscreant yonder is Scolfelton Erinmoss, son of the Earl of Boryn. Fell off a horse when he was ten and got impaled on a wooden stake. It's a miracle he survived, but of course, he hasn't been right ever since."

Thunder boomed in the distance.

"You smell that?"

The voice startled Alwyn, and it took him a moment to realize Yimt had asked him a question. "What?"

"That stench. That's why we stopped."

Alwyn sniffed the air. There was something, and it was far more disgusting than the current gamey fragrance of the Iron Elves. "What is it?"

There was the sound of boots and Regimental Sergeant Major Lorian came into view. He leaned against his halberd to catch his breath. "Arkhorn, fall out and bring your section with you."

"Yes, Sergeant Major," Yimt said, and motioned for the section to step out of line.

As they marched past the rest of the regiment, Alwyn couldn't help but notice that the other troops were giving them an odd look. It surprised him to realize it was pity. What, he wondered, did they know that he didn't?

The section reached the head of the column, where the smell was definitely stronger. Yimt called a halt and the section grounded their muskets, the sound oddly muffled. Alwyn looked down and saw they were standing in tufts of short, spindly grass. Grass. They had made it through the vines! He looked up and noticed that what he had at first taken for more vines in the distance was a grove of trees on a downward slope. He almost shouted for joy, the hardships and horrors of the journey falling away as if an angel had plucked them from his shoulders.

Then he saw the dirt.

"I could plant me some nice crops here," Inkermon the farmer said, scuffing the earth with his boot. "Got heft, it does, and plenty of vitamins in it, too. The Creator has blessed this land."

"What is that?" Alwyn asked, ignoring the farmer's assessment and pointing his chin to where the officers were grouped in a circle. A hundred yards beyond them the earth was humped, at least two men tall and a few hundred feet across. The mound was blood-red in color and peppered with holes big enough for several faeraugs to jump out of at once.

"Some kind of warren, I reckon," Inkermon said, sucking thought-fully on the single tooth in the front of his mouth. "Awfully big holes to be water gryphs, though."

This was something new to worry about. "Water gryphs?"

"Sure, you find them along rivers an' such, but it don't look like no warren I ever seen them in."

The first drop of rain fell with a splat on Alwyn's nose. He looked up and was rewarded with several warm, fat drops pelting him in the face and blurring his spectacles as the sky opened up directly above them.

"River?"

"Over there past that grove of trees. Can't you smell it?"

Alwyn squinted through the rain. "I don't see it."

"Course you don't, it's tucked down there below where them trees is at. You got to pay attention to the lay of the land is all. That and the smell. I tell you, with this dirt and that water and the Creator's guiding hand, a fellow could do right proper here."

The rain was now slashing down. Alwyn tried tipping his head forward slightly to shield his face, but as soon as he did, the rain trickled down his back. He looked over at Inkermon. He'd taken a different tack and leaned his head far back and opened his mouth wide, his single tooth glistening a buttery yellow as rainwater splashed into his mouth.

Movement to the left drew Alwyn's attention away. The elfkynan witch and a couple of the muraphant drivers had dismounted and walked up to the front of the column. The Prince waved them over to the group. It was impossible to hear what was being said, but there was a lot of pointing toward the mound. One of the elfkynan took a few tentative steps toward the mound, then started shaking his head and turned around and ran right back past the officers and kept going. Alwyn got a good look at his face as he ran past, and it did nothing to instill hope.

The second muraphant driver began gesticulating wildly while the witch pointed a finger at no one in particular and stamped a boot on the ground. The Prince, surprisingly, seemed amused by it all, while the major just stood there, his left hand resting on the pommel of his saber, his right clutching his chest.

The other elfkynan started shaking his head, too, and the Prince appeared to agree, because he suddenly pointed at the major and everyone stopped talking.

"Look sharp!" Yimt said.

The RSM and Major Osveen left the small group and marched through the rain toward them, talking and looking back over their shoulders toward the large dirt mound. They stopped a few feet away and the major addressed them. Even through the rain Alwyn could see the major was steaming.

"It'll be dark soon, so the quicker we get this sorted out, the quicker we can set up camp. Corporal Arkhorn," the major said, "you know how this works."

Yimt nodded. Water cascaded off his beard like a miniature waterfall, turning the normally black mass a shimmering silver. "Is that witch going to be any help?"

Lorian straightened up and glared at Yimt. "Not at this time."

If the news bothered Yimt, he didn't show it. He patted the hilt of his drukar and pointed over his shoulder. "Fair enough. Once I get inside, I'll light a charge. After that, it's all down to who wants it more." He hunched over his pack and opened the flap, revealing a white gauze bundle the size of a loaf of bread.

The RSM looked surprised. "What are you doing with an artillery charge? That isn't part of an infantryman's kit."

Yimt flashed him a metallic smile. "A soldier never knows what kind of important task those higher up than himself might ask him to do. It's a murky path, trying to divine the thoughts and fancies of your finer thinkers like officers, so I try to be prepared…just in case. I call it me head-and-shoulder plan."

Major Osveen obliged. "Head-and-shoulder plan?"

Yimt tapped his head and then his shoulder. "Keeping the one as close to the other as possible."

"See that you do," the major said, a smile he did nothing to hide stealing over his face. "And the same goes for the rest of you. There might be nothing in there, then again…"

"Not to fret, sir," Yimt said, taking off his shako and unslinging his shatterbow, motioning for the section to shed their packs and all other unnecessary equipment. The rain bounced off the top of his head and the thin skiff of hair covering it. "We'll be back in two shakes of a dragon's tail. Oh, speaking of tails, that kitty-cat of yours any good for sniffing things out, Major?"

The major looked over his shoulder to where Jir was tapping a large paw into a puddle, apparently mesmerized by the splashing raindrops.

"If he's in the mood," he said, whistling to the bengar and making a hand gesture toward the mound.

Jir looked up from his puddle and twisted his head from side to side as if contemplating the request, then bounded toward the warren and was lost in the rain.

"Right, we'd best get after him," Yimt said, saluting and quickly addressing the patrol. "Until we know better, you get it in your heads that there is something nasty down there and act like it. Keep your yaps shut unless you see something. We'll get closer and then see what we're dealing with."

He looked from soldier to soldier, his glance hard and determined. Alwyn returned it, unable to read anything else in the dwarf's eyes.

"Fix bayonets and make sure they're locked in tight. I don't want it pulling off the first time it gets stuck into something solid."

Alwyn grabbed the bayonet out of the frog on his belt and fumbled to get it in place. Everything was slick with rain and he was keenly aware that he was being watched. He took a breath and tried again, sighing with relief when the tell-tale click sounded.

"Follow me." Yimt took off at a casual walk, his drukar in his right hand, his pack in his left. Alwyn wondered if he would ever be that confident. Who knew what they might find in there, yet Yimt walked toward the mound as if he wasn't the least bit concerned.

They were quickly past the cluster of officers who stood watching their movement as if it were a training drill.

Adding to the surreal quality of the moment, their horses were busy cropping at grass. Alwyn took their calmness as a good sign.

Yimt held up his hand and motioned for the section to stay still. Alwyn instinctively crouched lower in the grass and felt for the hammer on his rifle, then stopped. With the rain beating down, there was no way the powder would be dry enough to spark. He'd heard of regimental wizards casting spells on powder to keep it dry, but he seriously doubted a spell could overcome this much rain, so it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Still, that witch could have at least tried.

He poked some taller grass to the side with the end of his bayonet and peered through the gap to see what Yimt was doing. It was pointless; the rain made everything a gray blur out past fifty feet. There was no sign of the bengar, either.

Then Yimt came into view, a short, dark figure in the rain, and pointed somewhere to the left, and then he was running, his caerna plastered to his legs like a pair of short pants.

Blurred figures rushed forward on either side and Alwyn stood up and followed suit, straining to see what was happening. The rain now hit his face head-on. He took off his spectacles and jammed them into a jacket pocket as he trotted forward.

A shadow suddenly loomed before Alwyn and he yelped, swinging his musket clumsily at it. There was a dull crack and the musket shivered in his hands, stinging them. A moment later he saw the shadow fall backward in the mud with a soft thud and lie motionless.

Shaking, Alwyn moved forward, the musket held by the barrel with both hands, ready to swing it again.

He'd killed a god. Well, a statue of one at any rate. Alwyn knelt to examine the now-fractured jaw of a short, stocky deity that had been placed on a pedestal that he had not seen. It had once been painted in garish reds and oranges, although only remnants of the colors now remained. He wasn't sure, but it looked an awful lot like a pig, or maybe a boar. Whatever it was, bashing it in the head with his musket wasn't likely to bring him anything but bad luck. He tucked his musket under his right arm and heaved the statue back onto its pedestal, placing the broken pieces of jaw in a neat pile by its feet.

"-ere the hell did he get to?" drifted through the rain, and Alwyn remembered why he was there. He gave the statue a pat on the head for good luck, then trotted off toward the sound of the voice, coming upon Yimt and the others crouched in a semicircle, less than twenty yards from the nearest opening in the mound.

Yimt looked at him, but in the pouring rain Alwyn couldn't tell if he was scowling or just frowning.

"Everyone take a hole," Yimt said at once. "Don't stay at the opening, go in about ten feet, then hold there. Keep your bayonet pointing straight in front of you and brace the butt of your musket in the dirt. Anything comes charging up out of the depths will impale itself."

Before anyone could respond, a high-pitched hiss sounded somewhere nearby. A moment later, a large, dark shape came loping out of the rain. Jir strolled right up to them, dragging a fifteen-foot-long constrictor in his mouth. He held the snake just behind the head and seemed completely unconcerned that it was wrapping its muscular body around his.

The snake coiled tighter around Jir's body, straining to squeeze the life out of the bengar. The sound of scales rubbing against wet fur grew louder. The bengar and the dwarf shared a look, and Alwyn was struck by the feeling of watching two predators assess each other. There was a loud snap as the bengar's fangs bit down and the coils of the snake's body slid from Jir's body. He began to play with it, tossing it into the air as if it were a twig, then pouncing on it and tearing off great chunks of flesh.

"All right, let's get this done," Yimt said, leading them around the mound, dropping off a soldier at a hole as they went by. Soon, only Alwyn was left-Yimt stopped at the next hole and turned to face him, pointing a stubby finger.

"You need to keep your head about you. You don't often get a chance to repeat mistakes out here. Now, if there is anything down there, it's going to come up in one hellfire of a hurry. Hold your ground and shout if you need help, and I'll be there." And then he smiled, his metal teeth glinting briefly in the rain, and Alwyn felt all was right with the world again.

"I'll hold, Corporal," Alwyn said, smiling back at his friend.

Yimt nodded and trotted to the next hole, fifteen yards over. He paused, got a better grip on his drukar, and strolled right in.

Alwyn was at the back of the mound and hidden from view from the officers and the rest of the regiment. The other members of the section had already gone into their holes, leaving him alone outside. His eyes now picked up hints of things he wished he'd not seen. Bits of white bone were scattered between beaten paths of dirt that ran between the holes and over the mound. Something, or somethings, had definitely lived here. The question was whether they were still down there.