A Darkness Forged in Fire

FORTY

B odies weren't supposed to have trees growing out of them.

Five soldiers of the Thirty-fifth Foot lay sprawled in and around the mud-walled hut they'd commandeered as a forward outpost on the western bank of the river guarding the route toward Luuguth Jor. Each was impaled by a black sapling of a type of tree Konowa had only ever seen from a great distance until now.

It was late afternoon, and the Iron Elves were still a good two-hour march away from the village and the tiny fortress, but Konowa figured that even if they were only two minutes away it wouldn't matter. Luuguth Jor would be a forest of death.

Storm clouds threatened, but for the moment the sun did its best to burn everything beneath it, and the smell of the dead was strong. Most curiously, however, no flies buzzed around the bodies.

Konowa bent over in the saddle. The trees were excreting a dark ichor that ran over the deformed limbs and dripped off steel-colored leaves.

"What is this?" Lorian asked, kneeling beside one of the dead soldiers and reaching out a gloved hand toward the black sapling that grew out of his chest.

"A new forest for Her," Konowa said.

Lorian's hand froze just above the tree. "Then the Shadow Monarch really is behind all this," he said, looking up at Konowa and then at his ruined ear.

Konowa ignored his stare. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and jumped off Zwindarra, throwing the reins over the horse's neck, giving him a pat on the withers, and telling him to stay. He walked to where Lorian was examining the body.

It was a corporal, the silver stripes on his jacket sleeve still visible through the mud-and blood-that covered his uniform. He crouched by the body, silently cursing as his knee tried to buckle beneath him.

"It's a sarka har," Konowa said, recognizing the twisted wood at once, "a blood tree." His father had told him many times of the High Forest and the fell magic that sustained the trees that fed on life.

"Do you think this happened to the scouts?" Lorian asked, voicing a fear that had been building in Konowa from the moment they came upon the scene.

"If they followed the river and were attacked, we would have seen this," he replied, pointing to the tree. "Either they are still ahead of us or they took a different route. The dwarf's a cagey one-I wouldn't count them out just yet." But Konowa wasn't really sure he believed Arkhorn could save his section from an evil like this.

"I picked them," Lorian said, standing up suddenly, his voice quavering. "I sentenced them to this fate."

"You've been in battle before-you've given orders and seen men die." "But not like this! What's happening to them?"

Konowa looked more closely at the body of the corporal. The large vein in his neck pulsed slowly, as if the heart still beat, but he knew better. "The tree will feed on the blood of the victim, drawing sustenance until it has consumed it. Whether it also feeds on the soul, I do not know."

That was too much for Lorian. "The soul! We have to stop it." He lunged forward to grab the sapling, but Konowa caught him by the arm and restrained him. When Lorian stepped back Konowa let go, then reached out with both his hands and grabbed the trunk. Every midnight fear, every chilling tale told in the dark hours when he was a child, raced through his veins as the cool ichor oozed between his fingers. And then came the anger.

Konowa's rejection in the birthing meadow of the Wolf Oaks flashed in his mind and he clenched the sapling tighter. The acorn against his chest surged with cold fury, infusing his body with its energy. The constant murmur of life evaporated, replaced by the anguished cries of the dead soldier and the voracious hunger of the sapling. Each sensed his presence and dug its need into his mind. Konowa grunted and pulled the tree out, the body jerking as if the strings to a puppet had been cut. Black, clotted earth clung to the roots, which wriggled about in vain trying to find something to latch on to. The smell of death grew worse. The voices in his head grew louder. The fire inside him burned colder still.

Konowa squeezed the trunk harder and forced the frost fire into the sapling. The soldier's screams drowned as the sapling absorbed the burning cold like a sponge, but frost soon began to sparkle along its leaves, and it, too, began to scream. Black flames danced along its length, leaping from branch to leaf, consuming it.

When there was little more than ash, Konowa threw it to the ground, gasping for air. He looked at his hands. The ichor had burned off, leaving them impossibly clean. The voices were gone, the unending murmur of life rushing back into the void.

"Major, are you all right?" Lorian asked, laying a hand on his shoulder. He immediately withdrew it with a shout, his glove covered in hoar frost.

Konowa caught his breath and looked up. "I'm fine. I guess it was cursed after all," he lied, looking back at the pile of ash. Already the heat of the day was returning to his skin, and he wiped a sleeve across his forehead.

"What happened? What does it mean?" Lorian asked, mesmerized by the smoking ash.

"Nothing of importance!" the Prince called out, riding up to them at a canter and bringing his suddenly skittish mount to a halt by sawing back hard on the reins. The horse danced about, refusing to settle. The whites of its eyes showed and the Prince had to constantly pull the reins to keep it from bolting. "I will not have soldiers of the Empire spooked like dumb horses by these things!" he said, finally reaching forward to slap his mount between the ears with the end of the reins. "These men were killed by the rebels. Whatever sorcery is at work is ancillary and of no consequence, and that is all the troops need to know. Our primary goal is the Star." The Prince looked back to the column of troops marching toward them.

Konowa rose, gingerly stretching his leg. The sensation of frost fire pouring through his hands made them shake, and he pressed them firmly against his thighs.

"With all due respect, sir," Konowa said, "the men are not stupid. They have a fairly good idea what we're about, and what we might be facing. I always found it better to level with them. They fight better when they know why." Not that he would tell them everything.

The horse danced around in a circle before the Prince got it under control again. He brought it back close to Konowa and leaned down from his saddle until it appeared he would topple right out of it. "All they need to know is that I am the colonel of this regiment and the Prince of Calahr. My orders will be obeyed or they will swing." He sat up straight again in the saddle. "The rebels will pay for this," he said loudly, so that the passing soldiers might hear. Lowering his voice, he continued. "There's no time to bury the bodies. Uproot the trees, put everything in the hut, and burn it all. Now."

Konowa silently cursed Marshal Ruwl and his father for making him nursemaid this fool. The urge to reach up and grab the Prince from his saddle and burn him instead flashed through Konowa, but he fought it-barely.

"Yes, sir, right away." He saluted and watched the Prince take off at a gallop as the horse tore away from the macabre scene as fast as it could.

"You heard His Highness," Konowa said, making no attempt to hide his anger and his contempt. He motioned for Lorian to look after the body of the corporal while he moved to the next tree.

It was the same each time. The cold would surge in Konowa and the sapling would try to absorb it, while the soul of the dead soldier cried out in fear and anguish. Each time, both were consumed, and it got easier to focus the energy. He was about to burn the hut in the same manner when he sensed Lorian's presence behind him. There was no threat, yet Konowa grew colder as the frost fire raced through his veins. It was as if the world was a blazing white sheet of snow with red slashes of life staining it. The need to purify it, purify all of it, clawed its way up inside Konowa until he could think of nothing else. He turned.

Lorian stared at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. He was holding one of the razor-edged leaves in his bare hand. Frost crawled along the leaf's surface, sparkling like black diamonds. And then the same consuming flame that burned the saplings flared up, and a moment later the leaf was ash, and Lorian's hand, like Konowa's, showed no injury.

"What have you done to us?" Lorian whispered, flexing his fingers as if seeing his hand for the first time.

It felt like a dam bursting. The sense of power and exhilaration vanished, leaving Konowa staggering.

What had he done?

What had his father given him? He looked down at the bodies in the hut and for a moment saw the bodies of the elves he had once known.

This was not his birthright-this was his curse.

The sound of marching feet passing by the hut brought him back. Konowa stood up straight and adjusted his uniform. "Get a pound of powder and a length of slow match and destroy this." He didn't wait for Lorian to reply, stepping out of the hut just as Rallie's wagon came by. Visyna was sitting beside her, and both of them looked at him as it rolled past.

He'd expected anger, outrage, even threats. Instead, as the wagon creaked past, the brindos honking and swishing their stubby tails, Jir padding alongside still looking up at the top of the wagon for the pelican, Konowa had to turn away. It wasn't rage he saw in their eyes, it was pity…and fear.