Ashes of a Black Frost

THREE

The roots of the sarka har stretched to the breaking point in their hunt for power. They were so deep below the desert now without finding anything that the trees above were beginning to wither and die. Without a new source of power to feed them Her forest in this land would soon cease to exist. There was no choice but to go deeper. The passage of disturbed rock they had followed was their last resort. Something had to be at the end of it.

Something was.

A root brushed up against a leathery-smooth object. The root began snaking its way around the oddity, slowly encircling it without disturbing it. Anything found at this depth required caution. More roots followed, branching out and finding other, similar objects. When nothing happened, they wrapped their roots around the exteriors of the strange things.

It became apparent at once that these weren’t rocks. These objects were unlike any others they had encountered before. Their surfaces were hard, but not brittle. They were round, but with one end larger than the other, creating a slightly distorted oval shape. What was most curious, however, was that these objects were hollow, but not empty. Each one was large enough to hold a fully grown elf. . or something else of that size.

The roots plunged their tips into the objects, smashing through the thin walls. They had no idea what they’d found, but in the bottom of each object lay a pool of congealed, brownish ichor. As debris fell inside, it landed in the liquid, swirling up greasy strains of darker material that gave off a familiar, bitter tang.

Yes. This was what Her forest needed. This was ancient power.

The sarka har couldn’t know it, but they had come across eggs, potential life that had been long abandoned and left to rot and die deep underground by the last of an ancient race of creatures that had once ruled this world. Even if they had known it would have made no difference.

Their desperate search for sustenance had been rewarded.

Roots drilled into the ichor and began pumping it up to the dying trees above.

The changes were immediate and terrifying.

The few sarka har with roots directly in the newfound power, grew taller. Branches that were once thin and brittle now flushed with the liquefied remains of long-dead embryos as the brown ichor flowed into them. As they grew supple they began twisting and rubbing against each to slough off their old bark. In its place, a new protective armor of dull black scales emerged. Leaves sprang forth like arrows fired from a bow, their needle points eight inches long and dripping with a glistening red fluid that resembled blood. As one, the leaves unfurled, revealing a variety of differently shaped leaves, each one translucent in the light of the falling snow. The veins in the leaves filled with the bloodlike fluid and the leaves began to change colors, rapidly shifting from green to brown to red and more as they swayed in the wind.

But it wasn’t just energy the sarka har had found. These were simple creatures, their sole purpose the survival and perpetuation of Her realm. Each was but a dark, stunted, and twisted offshoot of the Shadow Monarch’s great Silver Wolf Oak. Now, however, those feeding from the dead eggs experienced an unexpected side effect. No longer were they simply creatures of pure instinct. A crude kind of intelligence began to permeate the sarka har along with something far more sinister-they began to think for themselves.

Crude, stark thoughts crawled through their heartwood, worming into every branch and leaf. Images of a time long forgotten imprinted themselves in every fiber. It had been a brutal world, one of even greater peril and death than this one. Every thought struck the sarka har like bolts of lightning. They shook and quaked as this new consciousness permeated them.

They had to move. To remain still and stay here in this barren wasteland was to die. These sarka har were not going to let that happen.

Now thirteen feet tall and towering above their brethren, the newly transformed sarka har spread out their branches, seeing by touch and tasting the air with their leaves. They understood how different they were from the others. They understood they were anchored in place by a root system driven deep into the ground, and so they tore themselves free from the soil, severing their roots when the last of the ichor had been drained. Pain was not new to them, but understanding it was. It filled them with a whole new concept: anger.

They ignored the thrashing fury of the sarka har around them that could not change, and focused on their own growing awareness. In order to move, they could not stay as they were. More pain would be required.

Much more.

They twisted the remaining shards of roots into two distinct shapes. The first wound itself into a corkscrew shape that drilled back into the ground, anchoring the tree in place. The second took the form of a massive claw, and began crawling inch by inch in the opposite direction. The sarka har groaned as the tension built on its trunk. Cracks began to appear in their new bark that quickly spread to the wood beneath. The more the claw crawled the bigger the cracks grew until the night was shattered by explosive ripping and splintering.

These sarka har now had legs.

Pulling the twisted root back out of the ground, they took their first awkward steps across the line of power drawn by the Jewel of the Desert. Sparks flew as they crossed the line. Flame crackled but then died. This new land was inhospitable, the soil filled with the power of the Star, but they remained on its surface, and were not struck down by it.

Each step was a stumbling, broken motion that threatened to topple the trees over, but they soon learned to swing their branches to act as a counterbalance. The sarka har had learned to walk.

As they walked, they began to transform further. In order to better move across the snow-covered desert, the sarka har altered their form to something more suited for traveling upright over distances. Their trunks split further, lengthening the two pieces they were using as legs while their branches twisted together to form two rudimentary arms.

Two sarka har, however, took a different, more difficult form, finding a template long lost in the power of the ichor. Their transformation was much more painful and time-consuming. Branches tore and trunks shattered as the two sarka har remade themselves. Ichor spilled on the snow and steamed as it burned. Leaves spun away in the wind, but more sprouted. Larger. Stronger. They didn’t grow tall, but they grew long, extending themselves along the ground. It was a strange and horrifying sensation for a tree to fall toward the earth, but as more of the transformation took hold, they saw the power in this new stance. When the transformation was complete the other sarka har were gone, their trail in the snow already erased by the wind. It mattered little. These sarka har had discovered a new means by which to travel, and they knew where their brethren were heading.

Deep in the heartwood of every transformed tree lived a surging intelligence adapting itself to its newfound form after laying dormant for centuries untold. There was little for it to find beyond basic needs in the sarka har except for one, pure thing-a hatred of elves. In fact, it was a distorted echo of an emotion so ingrained in the Shadow Monarch’s Silver Wolf Oak that its acorns spread the poison of this feeling. The emotion of Her Silver Wolf Oak was a confused maelstrom of fury and love aimed at a single elf. As a result, the forest sprouted from its acorns reproduced this hatred in every sarka har. These new sarka har felt the hatred burning deep inside them, and while they little understood it, they were driven by it all the same. And unlike the sarka har who had not transformed, these trees could do more than lie in wait. They could move, and they could hunt. Their leaves tasted elf in the air. They weren’t far.

Without knowing its name, its history, or even what it was, the transformed sarka har began to close in on a single point in the Hasshugeb Expanse.

Suhundam’s Hill.

To march is to grind the body slowly with a torturer’s attention to detail. Granules too small to see find that perfect place between flesh and strap, rubbing skin until it blisters, weeps, and tears, staining shirts and filling boots with an oozing, red-tinted mud. Muscle and sinew explore pain so searing that the onset of stabbing needle pricks of numbness comes as a welcome relief. Shoulders erupt in burning cauldrons of agony that ache long after pack straps have been pried off, while wild thoughts of amputation race through the mind with every footfall.

At his most cynical, Konowa even wondered if it was all diabolically planned to be this way. Soldiers have very little to say about marching that’s relatable in mixed company. And when no officer or sergeant is around, their comments usually start by spitting in disgust, and for good reason. The prospect of battle, no matter how terrifying, grows in the mind of the soldier to be a kind of salvation from all the damned marching.

Konowa pushed away those thoughts and scanned the inhospitable wasteland curtained with snow. That in itself was worrying enough. What only yesterday had been a broiling pan of bleached sand and wind-frayed rock was now an unnatural tundra, cold and unforgiving. That the Iron Elves were about to march straight into the teeth of it was of less concern than what lay on the other side. Every man knew that the Shadow Monarch and Her creatures would be at the end of this journey. This march would have to be several types of hell for that prospect to look good.

Konowa did his best to buoy their spirits. “Just a short jaunt to the coast, lads. Not exactly a walk in the park, but we’ll make it.” Soldiers nodded, mostly because he looked at them, but hopefully because some actually believed him.

“Remember, the Prince brought a whole fleet with us when we landed,” Konowa said. “Admittedly, the navy types are a bit soggy, but they’ll be there for us when we need them.” I hope.

Konowa gave up on his pep talk and wandered among the men. Every soldier was busy examining the contents of his pack, lifting it and judging the weight, knowing every ounce carried would become ten pounds of pain in a few hours. Contents were dumped out and reexamined on the snow as soldiers thought long and hard about what to keep and what to discard.

“You might find your stomach will wish you’d kept those,” Konowa said, stopping by one soldier who was kneeling in the snow, busily dumping out the hard-as-rock biscuits given to them from the HMS Black Spike’s stores. Feygan. . Feyran. . Konowa tried, but couldn’t remember the man’s name, if he ever knew it. This soldier was scrawny and his uniform so dusty and torn that he looked more like a beggar sifting through a rubbish heap.

“My stomach don’t have a death wish, but if yours does you’re welcome to them,” the soldier said, then looked up and realized who he was addressing. He jumped to his feet and saluted. Eyes still wild from battle stared back at Konowa from a gaunt, sunburnt face smeared with black powder. Konowa recognized the look, knowing his own visage was just as startling. He returned the salute and motioned for the soldier to continue with his packing.

“You’re right; they are an acquired taste. Still, if you dunk them in a mug of arr they almost become edible.”

The soldier’s face took on a puzzled look. He reached up and brushed a greasy lock of blond hair off his forehead. “Well, sir, if that means poison then I agree with you there. I tried feeding one to a rat on the ship and the little bugger took one sniff and hightailed it in the other direction.”

Konowa could smell the soldier from here and suspected the rat hadn’t reacted entirely to the biscuit. None of them, save the Prince perhaps, were too fresh at this point. “Smart rat. How are you set for cartridges?”

At this, the soldier brightened. “Chockablock full there, Major. These heathen warriors use a ball just a smidge smaller than ours. They might rattle a bit coming out the barrel, but we’ve been grabbing up as much as we can carry. I’d wager our muskets will still be true enough to a hundred yards give or take.”

Cartridges weren’t the only thing the Iron Elves were stripping from the dead Hasshugeb warriors littering the sand around them. In addition to jewels and coins quietly pocketed, belts, robes, daggers, and goat-hide water skins were quickly becoming part of the regiment’s dress. Konowa marveled that the Prince had nothing to say on the subject-a far cry from the parade-ground dress he had demanded just a few short months ago. That strange sensation of hope stirred in Konowa again. If the Prince could learn, who knew what else was possible?

“Very well,” Konowa said. He paused, a question forming that he wasn’t sure how to ask, or even if he should. He knew most officers and certainly the Prince wouldn’t inquire of a soldier how he was doing. Soldiers do what they’re told. For the most part Konowa accepted it as the way it had to be. He also believed, however, that a soldier fights better when he understands the situation, at least as far as he’s able to grasp it. And that meant officers needed to understand things, too, most especially the hearts and minds of the troops.

Konowa realized the soldier was staring at him so he simply said: “How are you holding up?”

The soldier pointed to his chest. “Me, sir? Better than most,” he said, waving in the direction of the battlefield. “I’m still here, got all me parts, no extra holes, and I’m looking forward to moving out.”

Konowa strained to hear a trace of sarcasm, but couldn’t detect a note. “Eager to get at the Shadow Monarch are you?”

The soldier shrugged his shoulders. “You could say that, sir. Way me and the lads see it, when we climb the elf witch’s mountain and kick Her down the other side, well, we’ll be good and done with the oath. With that taken care of, I’ve been thinking I might take me back pay, retire from this here army, and take on a new job, one with a little less danger if you take my meaning.”

Konowa did. “Clerking in a shop perhaps, or driving a milk wagon?”

The soldier’s eyes grew wide and he shook his head vigorously. “Lordy no, sir. I was thinking about joining the navy. Except for these biscuits, the sea air felt good somewhere deep inside me, you know? A man can breathe out there.”

Thoughts of the ocean for Konowa brought about the immediate opposite reaction. “I suppose everything qualifies as a job with less danger when compared to our current activities.” Konowa hunched his shoulders as a blast of wind drove more snow down his back, where it melted and trickled down his spine. The chill made thoughts of the ocean a little too real for him. “Can you swim?”

“Not as such,” the soldier said, a shy smile stealing across his face, “but I float like a champion. I figure that’s close enough.”

“Could be, but try to bunk near some cork, just in case. Carry on, Private,” Konowa said. He saluted as he took a step to walk on, then stopped and turned back. “Feylan.”

The soldier’s smile grew. “Aye, aye, Major!”

Konowa enjoyed the rest of his time moving among the troops. Wherever he went, they nodded or gave a thumbs-up. A few even grinned. Despite the horrors they’d faced and the losses they’d suffered, these men were not broken. He felt a small yet rousing speech coming on when an icy blast threw snow in his face and brought him back to reality. It reminded him that despite the black acorn connecting him to a cold magic, he still needed to stay warm. Konowa began to search for a dead warrior still clothed, but wherever he looked, the bodies were already stripped bare. He spied the Prince in conversation with Rallie and deliberately angled away from them. He had all he could handle right now with the coming march.

The determined form of Viceroy Alstonfar heading straight for him, however, begged to differ.

“Viceroy,” Konowa said, nodding his head in greeting as the man rolled to a stop. He was swaddled from head to toe in robes from at least five different Hasshugeb warriors. “Think you’ll be warm enough?”

The Viceroy beamed a smile that suggested he’d missed the sarcasm completely. “You’d think my few extra pounds would keep me warm, but all they’re really good for is lowering people’s estimation of me when we meet.”

Konowa inwardly cringed. This man before him was an accomplished diplomat with obvious intelligence between his ears who had shown real courage on the field of battle. Before Konowa could form an apology the Viceroy carried on.

“I find it works in my favor more times than not, although not as well as I’d like when it comes to the fairer sex. And please, call me Pimmer.” His smile, thankfully, did not leer at the mention of women, but the conversation was heading in a direction Konowa didn’t want to follow.

“Are you ready?” Konowa asked, wondering how the man could ride a camel wearing so many robes. “We should get moving as soon as possible. With a bit of luck, we can break through what trees remain and reach the coast at Tel Bagrussi in two days.” Konowa saw the expectant look and relented. The man had earned it. “Pimmer.”

Pimmer’s eyes misted and Konowa worried for a moment that he might actually tear up, but another cold gust of wind took care of that. “Ah, yes, Tel Bagrussi. Quite a little cesspool. I’ve only been there once and I can assure you it’s not for the faint of heart or those with a sense of smell. They ferment a fish there that attracts a beetle that lays its eggs in the rotting flesh, which then hatch as larvae to consume the putrid mess. Now here’s where it gets interesting. They then take the larvae and grind them into a pulp which-”

Konowa raised a hand to ward off any more. “I don’t imagine we’ll be there for long. We just need to signal the fleet and jump aboard.”

“Quite true, quite true, but alas, we won’t be going to Tel Bagrussi.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s too close to Nazalla, I’m afraid. The citizenry there will be filled to overflowing with anti-Imperial fervor. It was a close run thing getting out of the city. Trying to get back in would be tantamount to storming a castle at this point. The Jewel of the Desert has returned, Major. Our time here, and by that I mean the Calahrian Empire, appears to be coming to a close. Oh, don’t look so surprised-there will be some in the royal court and more on the Imperial General Staff who will try to hang on to every far-flung piece of land like this, but I fear it’s a losing proposition. And even if that weren’t the case, we are faced with the immediate problem of no longer being able to travel under the auspices of the Suljak.”

Konowa sneered at the name. Both spiritual and political leader of the far-flung Hasshugeb tribes, the Suljak had played a dangerous game in invoking what he had thought was the ancient magic of Kaman Rhal. What he called forth instead was an abomination. The feeling of absolute stunned terror Konowa had just experienced when he’d come face to skeletal face with that dragon of bones still lingered.

Pimmer shuffled closer to Konowa. “I’m afraid the poor man has suffered quite a setback in the eyes of his people. Not that I’d wager on such a thing, but after his dalliance with Rhal’s dragon it’s only a matter of time before he’s taken out to a nice patch of desert and diced into small bits.”

Konowa felt no pity for the man. “He caused a lot of needless deaths.”

“I don’t disagree,” the Viceroy said, “but his demise will create turmoil among the tribes as each puts forth a new leader to claim his place. Couple that with the return of the Jewel of the Desert, which is viewed as a powerful symbol of native self-determination in these lands, and you have all the ingredients for a full-scale revolt.”

“That really isn’t our problem anymore,” Konowa said, emphasizing each word. “We have to get to the coast.” He felt his newfound sense of hope wavering in the face of this new reality.

“You are right, Major, and we will. There is a trading route that runs parallel with the coast to the west of here. It has the added benefit of having several fortifications guarding it, which should provide us with some lodging and provisions as we proceed. After no more than two or three days march, we’ll be able to turn north and be in Tel Martruk a day after that.”

“To the west?” Konowa asked, turning to look in that direction. Snow and darkness worked against his elven vision and revealed nothing.

“Toward Suhundam’s Hill, as a matter of fact,” Pimmer said, his voice dropping slightly. “The place where your elves are stationed. For all we know they could still be there even now, although with Her forest. .”

It was a thought Konowa had refused to explore, but now he could no longer avoid it. What if he found his elves dead? For all he knew they had been slaughtered and spitted on sarka har all across the desert. He started to curse, then caught himself. He should have found a way to go there first, but that damn Star had changed things. Only a few months ago the idea of the Stars were little more than long-held myths. Konowa wished desperately for those days.

“And the Prince approves of this plan?”

Pimmer looked over to Rallie and the Prince before turning back and motioning for Konowa to come closer still. “The Prince is in a rather delicate state at the moment. The loss of virtually the entire collection of the library has had a devastating effect on him. Defeating the Shadow Monarch’s forces, destroying Kaman Rhal’s dragon, and ensuring the safe return of a Star of power would be more than enough for most men, but his Highness, despite all the bluster, is not a warrior at heart. Not like his father and definitely not like you. I did my best and managed to grab up some truly remarkable documents and a few other priceless trinkets that are. . invaluable, to the peoples of the world of course.” At this he paused and looked down at the ground. “Still just odds and ends though. I’m afraid most of what was in the library is now gone forever.”

“Good riddance,” Konowa said, knowing it would upset the Viceroy and not caring. “Searching for treasures, no matter what form they take, makes men do stupid things.”

If the Viceroy was insulted he didn’t show it. He looked up at Konowa with genuine hurt on his face. “Knowledge is worth preserving.”

“So are lives.”

Faces of those Konowa held dear immediately sprung to mind, and he had to swallow hard before trusting himself to continue. “In any event, the library is gone and the Prince will have to get over his disappointment.” He paused to let the building anger subside. Pimmer wasn’t the Prince. “About this caravan route to the west that will take us to Suhundam’s Hill. You’re certain about our path?”

At this, Pimmer lowered his voice again, making Konowa strain to hear him over the wind. “As certain as can be in these uncertain times. We’ll have Her forest to the north, and it’s difficult to say how the tribes further to the west will react should we come in contact with any of them. But one factor above all others makes me believe this is the way to go.”

“And what is that?” Konowa asked.

“Miss Synjyn agrees with me.”

Konowa reached out a hand and placed it firmly on the Viceroy’s arm. The cloth was soft and thicker than Konowa had realized. Frost fire began to sparkle along the fabric and he removed his hand before he hurt the man. A wind gust picked that moment to drive a flurry of snow in his face. They were in for a long, cold march. “Then it sounds like we have a little more walking in the snow to do than I thought. Tell me, Pimmer, I seem to have missed out on the procurement of foul weather clothing. How much for one of your robes?”