Ashes of a Black Frost

SIXTEEN

The creature raged at the scudding clouds driven before an unceasing wind. The sky churned gray and black, echoing the chaotic thoughts in its mind. It leaned into the wind, heedless of the metallic snow scouring the desert floor like an army of teeth. The rakkes, their bloodlust whetted to a shrieking frenzy after ripping through the caravan, charged forward heedless of the deteriorating weather. With every mile covered more rakkes joined the pack until it appeared that a dark crescent was sweeping all the land bare.

Nothing survived the onslaught.

Not wildlife, not Hasshugeb tribes, and certainly not Her dark elves seeking to end the creature’s existence.

The creature, however, felt no triumph. Insanity swirled in an ever-expanding vortex in its mind. More and more of its being was fragmenting, scattered on winds that no mortal could feel. In its fury at being cheated out of destroying the Iron Elves at the caravan, the creature was tearing itself apart. Only its need for revenge kept it from losing itself entirely. That one crystalline thought fixed and shone in the center of its madness like a diamond.

Suhundam’s Hill.

The Iron Elves.

Major Swift Dragon.

The soldier usurper.

Endlessly it repeated the mantra.

As it did a new, cunning thought began to form. The shades of the dead still aided the Iron Elves. No matter how fierce the rakkes, they were no match for such enemies. . alive.

Frost fire arced and spit across the creature’s body. The snow, stained with black ore, flew to it and began circling around it. A whirling storm of thick sheets of metal ice bands formed, each one rotating faster and faster. The earth cracked and buckled beneath its feet. Rakkes screamed and ran.

A high-pitched shriek rose above the siren wail of the spinning metal ice as the pull of circling bands began to tighten their orbits until they were cutting into what remained of its body.

Ribbons of flesh were gouged out of it like a plow cutting through loam. Each slice was a new exploration of suffering. Bone chipped and disintegrated while blood misted and crystallized, then fractured into ever smaller pieces.

It kept moving even as its body and mind were honed down to a razor thin existence. It drew more of the storm toward it until it vanished entirely in a maelstrom of gale force winds. For a moment, it was only energy, spinning itself tighter and tighter until the pressure became too much.

The wind died.

Everything went silent.

The spinning stopped.

The explosion released energy and agony. The bands of metal ice fractured, scything the air for hundreds of yards in every direction. Bits of the creature stained the shards.

Rakkes vaporized in a hail of ice and metal. Bodies flew apart, sliced and cleaved so minutely that it was impossible to tell what they had once been.

A remnant of the creature coalesced in the center of the blast. A cold, dark spinning core of black energy. It reached out with its mind, finding pieces of itself all around. It called to them, and shades of dead rakkes by the hundreds answered the call.

The surviving rakkes picked up their pace, their bloodlust unabated. The shades of the dead rakkes flowed between this plane and the next.

They were the creature’s revenge.

The creature would have smiled if it still knew how.

It had transformed itself. It had taken its pain and agony and multiplied it hundreds of times over.

Finally, after decades of servitude, it had an army to call its own.

Konowa rubbed his right shin and climbed back to his feet, waving for Private Feylan to continue. The soldier was moving quicker up the rocky path than Konowa expected. The footing was treacherous as every rise was slicked with ice, as Konowa’s shinbone could attest. Worse, no two were quite the same, so he couldn’t find a comfortable rhythm. Whoever had hacked the steps out of the rock had done so quickly and with little care or concern for craftsman-ship. The more Konowa thought about it the more he wondered about the likelihood of there being any booby traps at all. Considering the condition of the steps he doubted the workers would have had the time or the skill to set anything more dangerous than the uneven steps themselves.

“That’s a hundred, Major,” Private Feylan whispered. He stood just a yard ahead of Konowa, one boot resting on the step above, his musket held at the ready. Snow swirled above their heads providing a pale, reflected light tinged with the blue of the returned Jewel of the Desert. It made everything feel even colder, which was quite a feat.

Konowa nodded, hiding his chagrin. He’d been so busy trying to navigate the winding path without breaking a bone he’d lost count. He turned and looked at the Viceroy, who had the map out and held at what appeared to be a new angle.

“Problem?” Konowa asked.

“Wrinkle is more like it. I can’t quite make out a letter here, and I suspect it’s rather important. No matter, we’re good until the three hundred and first step. Of that I’m almost positive.”

Konowa looked back up at Feylan, whose eyes grew considerably wider. Konowa offered him a tired smile. “You’re doing fine. Just slow it down a bit. We’ll beat the regiment to the fort by a good hour as long as we do it carefully. Now hold there for a second, I want to do a head count.”

Private Feylan nodded and turned back to face up the path. Slinging his musket over his shoulder, Konowa eased himself around using both hands on the rocks near him to steady himself. A thin sheet of ice covered the rock giving his hands little purchase. He pressed harder as a boot heel began to slip out from beneath him.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered, ramming the palms of his hands against the ice and willing his body to stay upright even as his other boot began to slip as well. He tried to dig in, but only resulted in slipping faster. For a moment he treaded air, madly trying to find some footing. An idea formed from desperation sprang to mind and frost fire flared out from his hands to cover the rock and the step beneath him. His boots thudded down into the rough ice crystals and didn’t move.

Konowa’s sigh of relief was cut short as the butt of his musket banged against a boulder.

He cringed, but the noise was dull and didn’t carry. He deliberately looked past Pimmer, who was staring at him with mouth agape and caught the eye of the soldier behind him. “Everyone still with us?” Konowa asked as nonchalantly as he could.

A low murmur sounded followed by a few muffled aye’s before the wind drowned out the rest. A moment later the soldier nearest Konowa gave him a thumbs-up.

Konowa carefully spun himself back around to face up the stone stairs and gave Feylan a hand signal to continue. The soldier set out at once, but definitely with more caution. Konowa kept a close eye on where Feylan stepped and tried to place his boot in exactly the same spot while counting off the steps under his breath.

Before Konowa was ready they reached the two hundredth step. Again they stopped and Konowa did another head count while the Viceroy continued to spin his map for yet another new angle in a most disconcerting fashion.

Three hundred and one remained the magic number. All the soldiers were accounted for, so they pressed on until Konowa counted out two hundred and eighty. He reached out a hand and grabbed a hold of Feylan’s robe and pulled. The private stopped and turned.

“We’re getting close,” Konowa said, keeping his voice low. He motioned for Feylan to sit down as he leaned back against a boulder and caught his breath. Thus far the path, though steep, had run more or less in a straight line. Up ahead, however, Konowa could make out a sharp turn and then blackness.

The wind had a nasty trick of funneling down the path directly into their faces, carrying with it minute particles of sand and rock along with the metallic-tinged snow, stinging his face and making it even harder to see the way ahead.

Pushing his senses forward would be of little help here. If there really was an ancient booby trap up ahead the original builders would have had to have made it out of rock or metal. It certainly couldn’t be anything alive. . or could it?

Konowa closed his eyes and drew his thoughts inward, grasping the cold power of the oath bond and then strengthening it with his need. He pushed outward, opening his eyes to stare sightlessly as his mind surged far ahead, questing the rocks above them for something waiting to attack.

Something warm and sweaty loomed in front of his face and Konowa snapped back to himself to find Pimmer weaving in front of him like a ship tossed on a storm. “Major, are you. . are you all right?” he asked, his breathing ragged.

“Fine, thank you, Viceroy. I was just checking to see if there was anything with large claws and teeth around the next rock, but I sensed nothing. How are you?”

“I. . oh my, this is far more vigorous than I anticipated,” he said, sliding down against the rock face opposite Konowa. “Maps. . don’t really impart. . a true sense of altitude I’m afraid.”

“Let’s hope they’re better at telling us what the first booby trap is,” Konowa said, motioning for the rest of the soldiers to take a knee. The command had to be relayed back down the line as the path was too narrow for all of them to squeeze together in a circle.

Knowing that was his cue, Pimmer pulled out the map, turning his body so that it blocked the paper from the wind. Konowa pushed himself away from the rock and leaned over for a better look. Pimmer fished around in his robes and retrieved a small brass storm lantern. He wrapped both hands around it and gave it a shake. When he took his hands away, Konowa was amazed to see it had lit.

Pimmer saw him looking and held it closer so Konowa could see. “A little find in the library. Can’t say that I understand how it works, but that’s science for you.”

“It’s not magic?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Pimmer said. “Looks like there is a liquid and perhaps some crystals inside it. When you shake it they get smashed together and you get light. Lasts for a good ten minutes or so until you shake it again. There are several cases in nature of creatures having the ability to produce their own light from tiny fireflies to, well, dragons.”

“When all this is over you’ll have to tell me all about it,” Konowa lied, pointing to the map. “What’s around the next bend?”

Pimmer smiled and set the lantern down and focused his attention on the map. “If I’m reading this right,” he said, tracing a finger along the paper, “the key to step three hundred and one is to avoid it altogether.”

“Beg pardon?” Konowa said. To their credit, the soldiers around them said nothing, knowing Konowa would look out for them.

Pimmer shrugged. “I’m doing my best, but deciphering the code is tricky, Major. Still, my advice is sound. Whatever happens with the three hundred and first step is nothing we want a part of, so it’s a simple matter of not stepping on it and we should be fine.”

“Are you going first then?” a soldier asked.

“Who said that?” Konowa asked, looking around sharply.

“Me, sir, Private Otillo,” the soldier said. He didn’t have the good sense to look sheepish.

It was clear insubordination. However naive about the job of soldiering the Viceroy might appear, he was still the ruler of this land and Her Majesty’s sworn representative. Konowa knew he’d been letting a lot slide since the ramifications of the oath had become clear, but the men were starting to take advantage. Before he could call out the soldier, however, Pimmer responded.

“There’s nothing else for it. The map is tricky and I won’t be a lick of good to someone a few feet ahead of me as I try to piece the puzzle together.”

Konowa waved away the offer. “Viceroy, we’ve been over this. No one questions your bravery,” he said, looking squarely at Otillo, who had just done so, “but your unique talents will no doubt be needed many times in the coming days as we travel toward the coast. You aren’t going first.”

Pimmer stood up with some effort and straightened his robes. It took a moment as he had to readjust his pistol and saber. When he finally had everything in place, he stuck out his chin and pointed a finger at Konowa. “Then I must pull rank on you, Major, and insist that I go first.”

“This isn’t the time or place, Viceroy,” Konowa said, reining in his exasperation as best he could. “You might outrank me, but out here I-”

“Excuse me, Major,” Private Meswiz said, his voice a high-pitched whisper. “Feylan’s gone.”

Konowa and Pimmer both turned and looked up the path. It was empty.

“What in blue blazes is he thinking?” Konowa said. “All right, stay sharp and keep quiet. Follow me,” Konowa turned and headed up the steps two at a time and to hell with the ice.

He rounded the bend expecting the worst and found Private Feylan standing proudly on a step. When he saw Konowa he mouthed three hundred and one.

“Are you mad? Get off that thing,” Konowa hissed.

Feylan backed up to the next highest step. “It’s okay, Major, all this ice has frozen everything solid. If there are any mechanisms they’re not moving. It’s perfectly safe.”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed? We have no idea what these traps might be. Anything could set them off. Maybe it’s not pressure on the step at all. Maybe it’s some kind of magical trigger. Have you forgotten the white fire already?”

Feylan’s grin withered on his face. “Oh. . I hadn’t thought about that. Sorry, sir. I’d be okay if someone else wants to take the lead for the next part.”

Now it was Konowa’s turn to grin. “Oh, no, you’ve got the keenest sense for danger now, I reckon, so you lead on. Viceroy,” Konowa said, turning his head slightly to speak over his shoulder. “How far to the next booby trap?”

“Looks like five hundred and thirty-three steps this time,” he said, his voice far from confident.

“You heard him,” Konowa said, motioning for Feylan to get moving. “Count like your life depends on it.”

Feylan nodded, slowly turned, and began creeping up the steps with significantly more care than before. Konowa let him get a few steps ahead then started after him, careful to step over the three hundred and first step. He knew without looking that the Viceroy and all the soldiers following would do the same. Nothing focuses one’s attention like impending death.

They reached and passed three more suspected booby traps without setting anything off.

Pimmer grew more confident with each success, his voice growing louder as he discussed the intricacies of the map detail until Konowa had to shush him. Konowa, on the other hand, grew increasingly nervous the higher they climbed. The soldiers were starting to relax, and Konowa didn’t like it.

He suspected that Pimmer had missed something critical in his deciphering of the map, but he had no idea what. The builders of the path couldn’t have expected a snow and ice storm to gum up the works, so maybe it really was as simple as that, but Konowa didn’t believe it.

He continued following Private Feylan closely, keeping the soldier within arm’s reach so that if something did spring at them he’d have at least a fighting chance of pulling the lad back to safety. Of course, that assumed whatever trap was sprung didn’t get Konowa, too.

The higher they climbed the more Konowa’s guilt grew. Feylan was pushing his luck as he passed through each booby trapped section, and unlike before, his confidence that the ice had rendered everything safe had eroded. It went unsaid, but Private Feylan would be Corporal Feylan at the top of the stairs. All he had to do was survive.

They reached the next trap. Konowa double-checked the count in his head to make sure it was right and nodded to Feylan. The soldier stepped over the trigger and waited. When nothing happened, Konowa did the same. They each let out a small sigh. Konowa turned and pointed down at the step to the soldier behind him.

“Don’t step here,” he said.

The soldier, Otillo, muttered and Konowa turned to follow Feylan.

A soft click of a metal latch releasing cut through the wind.

Konowa reached out to grab Feylan even as the sound of stone sliding on stone reached his ears.

He was too late. Konowa’s hand touched Feylan’s robe as a sharp snap echoed off the rocks around them.