The Light of Burning Shadows

FOURTEEN

N ot exactly a stroll down the Boulevard of Heroes back in Celwyn, but I’m damn proud of the lot of you all the same,” Yimt said. “You kept it together and paraded like the shiny siggers that I knew you were. The major himself said seeing you march like that brought tears to his eyes.”

“The major really said that?” Scolly asked.

Yimt rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I don’t know if I want to pat you on the head with my hand or the butt of my shatterbow. Now listen up, lads, and you might just learn something, even you, Scolly.”

They stood at the crossroads of six alleyways in a labyrinthine marketplace that made the one in Port Ghamjal in Elfkyna look positively orderly. Blind beggars lined the street with wide, flat bowls at their feet, their milky eyes staring sightlessly into the distance while their hands reached out, palms up, imploring. Market stalls were crammed in tight with little more than a hanging rug dividing them. Wares of every shape, size, and color spilled out into the alleys, and more hung from canopies restricting passage to little more than one person wide. Lanterns were flickering to life as dusk settled over the city. Everything was becoming shadow.

Alwyn pushed forward as the other soldiers gathered round. Emotions were close to the surface. Weeks of floating on the high seas with only one nightmarish island after another to break up the monotony had taken their toll. The whole regiment was ready to give the cauldron a stir and see what bubbled up.

Fortunately, they had been allowed to leave their packs and greatcoats at the temporary camp now set up on the grounds of the Viceroy’s palace near the center of the city, but all had their muskets slung over their shoulders. By order of the Prince, their muskets were not supposed to be loaded. Yimt, however, had a different view on the subject, and every soldier had rammed a charge and musket ball down the barrel before they set forth, but out of view of the Prince.

Yimt looked around him and scratched his beard. Everyone leaned in a little closer.

“We’ve been given a night to dust off the old crystal ball and peer into the depths of our depraved and sordid souls. In a place like Nazalla, whatever you desire is most definitely available…for a price. After what we’ve been through I ain’t judgin”, so whatever you want, now’s the time to shout it out. Now then, what sort of mayhem and mischief are you looking for?”

Roars of beer, wine, and other liquid refreshment echoed off the walls and startled a few beggars, who suddenly found their sight wasn’t as bad as all that and quickly took off for other parts. Alwyn had considered staying in the temporary camp, but Yimt wouldn’t hear of it, and now that Alwyn was here, he was glad he’d allowed himself to be dragged along.

“Easy, easy,” Yimt said, motioning with his hands to calm down. “Let’s try not to frighten them off before we get our drinks, shall we? What about you, Inkermon? They have fruit juices and arr as black as tar that they serve in tiny little cups.”

“Wine is permitted on certain occasions, in moderation, of course, and with the proper rites observed,” the religious farmer said. Looks of stunned surprise greeted this statement.

“Now I know the world’s coming to an end,” Hrem said, eliciting a few laughs. “Our holy man is going to lift a few with us heathens.”

Yimt nodded his approval. “There might be hope for you yet, Inkermon. Wine, you say? If my memory serves, they make one here from watermelons that’ll have you dancing the night away. Well, maybe not dancing exactly.”

“I’m starving,” Scolly interrupted, pushing his bulk forward. “All that talk about bread and crumbs earlier got my gut all worked up. I could eat just about anything right now, but no salt.”

There were nods of agreement. Alwyn was convinced that if it rained now, he’d melt into one large pile of salt. How the sailors ate that food for months on end, he didn’t know.

“I asked around at the palace,” Yimt said. “Most of the food here will clear your pipes and set sparklers off behind your eyeballs.”

“Drink and wine is, well, fine,” Teeter said, “but where would a fellow go for a little…companionship? Doomed or not, we were on that ship a long bloody time.”

This time there was some muttering and shuffling of feet. Alwyn was embarrassed to feel his face flushing. Until now, his thoughts had been so consumed with the oath and the nightmares that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of anything normal. From island to island, there had been no chance to think about a time beyond the horrors. Now that they had a whole night to just be themselves, he didn’t know what to do with it. Others, but not all, appeared to be equally perplexed.

Yimt hung his head in mock shame. “I’m embarrassed to say I know you. Laddies, are you familiar with what the fine folk call reet-oracle speaking?”

Blank stares greeted Yimt.

“It’s when I already know the answer to my question. Like I said, I did some asking around at the palace. The place for us is the Blue Scorpion. If the palace guard weren’t lying through their teeth, whatever you’re looking for tonight, and I do mean whatever, we’ll find it there.”

“I was thinking of wandering the market a bit,” Hrem said, “maybe picking up a little something for the missus.”

Yimt shook his head. “Forget that. You saw the crowd today. We’ve got to stick together, especially at night. Wasn’t like this twenty years ago, I can tell you that. Nazalla’s changed, and not for the better.” He turned and pointed to a wall where a long scroll was pasted to the dusty-white stucco. “They can paper this entire city with the Prince’s proclamation, but it ain’t going to stop your purse being stolen or your throat bein’ slit. There’s dangerous folk here that would just as soon knife you as say hello.”

“Let them try,” Zwitty said. He held out his hand and frost fire burned to life. Everyone jumped back. Very few soldiers, of whom Alwyn was one, exhibited a natural skill in wielding the flame and could control it. With the rest, like Zwitty, it was like giving a loaded musket to a child.

“Douse that!” Yimt ordered, quickly looking around to see if they’d been seen. “You want a riot? Listen up, all of you. It was one thing to play with the frost when we were out on them islands and the ship, but now we’re in a city where people got funny ideas about magic and curses. I don’t want to see so much as a spark tonight, is that clear?”

Zwitty sneered and closed his hands. The black flame continued to burn.

“Was I not clear? Put that bloody flame out now,” Yimt said.

“Quit playing around, Zwitty, and put it out,” Teeter added.

“All of you stop yelling at me and I will,” Zwitty said, his voice rising an octave. He squeezed his fists tighter and closed his eyes, but the frost continued to burn. The air in the immediate area began to turn cold.

Yimt blew out his cheeks and raised a fist. “Zwitty, this is your last chance. Put that blasted fire out now.”

Zwitty opened his eyes and looked around at the group. Though he tried to hide it, there was terror in his eyes. Alwyn realized the problem. He can’t put it out.

“Stay calm,” Alwyn said, walking toward Zwitty.

“I am calm!” Zwitty shouted, starting to back up. “Just leave me alone. I can’t concentrate with everyone yelling at me!” The frost fire was now creeping up his forearm, and mist formed with every word he said.

A few passersby stopped and stared. Hrem took a step toward them and they quickly continued on their way.

“We’d better get him out fast or all of Nazalla’s going to know about it,” Hrem said.

“Ally, can you put him out like you did Kester?” Yimt asked.

Alwyn nodded. “I think so. This isn’t the white fire, Zwitty’s just not in control of the magic.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Zwitty said, even as the black flames grew higher. “I just…it’s so cold…” He staggered, then stood upright again.

“Ally, put him out. Now!” Yimt ordered.

Alwyn strode forward and grabbed Zwitty’s wrists in his hands. Immediately the frost fire sprang to life in Alwyn’s hands, and he felt the cold flow of the magic coursing through him. “Easy, Zwitty, easy.”

“…help me…” Zwitty said, his eyes shut tight. His lips were quivering and black frost was forming on his face.

Shadows appeared, their spectral shapes forming a ring around the group of soldiers. The air temperature dropped to freezing. Someone screamed, and running feet were heard disappearing down an alleyway.

“People are watching, Sergeant,” Hrem said, pointing to a gathering crowd several yards away.

Dead hands reached out to Alwyn and Zwitty. Alwyn gritted his teeth and focused. The black flame roared higher, bathing everything in a cold, dark light, then went out without a sound. Zwitty collapsed to a knee and Alwyn blew out his breath, releasing Zwitty’s wrists.

The shades wavered, then they, too, disappeared. The air immediately felt warmer.

“Nothing to see here, folks, just a little trickery by a jokester,” Yimt said, his metal teeth glinting as he smiled broadly. “Get him up and get moving,” Yimt whispered under his breath.

Alwyn and Scolly helped Zwitty to his feet and they all started walking down an alley.

“You okay, Zwitty?” Scolly asked.

Zwitty coughed and shook off their grip. “Course I’m okay. I just about had it when Ally here stepped in to play hero.”

Yimt led them down an alley, then through a couple of turns until there didn’t appear to be anyone following them. “He saved your arse is what he did,” Yimt said, finally bringing them to a halt.

“I-” Zwitty started to say, but Yimt cut him off.

“You were a heartbeat away from joining the Darkly Departed is what you were,” Yimt said, jabbing a finger in Zwitty’s chest. “Personally, I don’t give a rat-dragon’s scaly little hide if you do join them, but you ain’t going to ruin our night.” He looked at the rest of them. “Lads, in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in it up to our necks already. The last thing we need,” he said, turning his gaze back to Zwitty, “is to make matters worse on our own.”

Alwyn looked down at his own hands.

“Now,” Yimt said, his voice sounding jovial again, “follow me, stay close, and try, try not to do anything stupid. Again.” Yimt set off at a quick pace, motioning for Hrem to walk beside him. Alwyn was momentarily hurt by this, then realized the reason why. It sometimes took a moment for people to recognize the danger Yimt presented. Hrem’s hulking frame, on the other hand, made it immediately obvious, and their route through the crowded alleyways quickly cleared.

Yimt kept up a running commentary on the joys of Nazalla as they passed by market stands. There were bolts of shimmering cloth in colors that, until that moment, Alwyn never knew existed, intricately woven wicker baskets, perfectly shaped pyramids of spices, nuts, and fruits. One sign written in several languages promised the shopper the finest in magic potions, amulets, and assorted accoutrements for the discerning witch or wizard, while another was nothing more than an oval of beaten and polished brass.

Alwyn started to make a mental note of several shops with the intent to come back and visit sometime when things were safer, but then stopped. What did it matter? How many more times would he face death before it finally claimed him? The pain in his stump became more noticeable and he was about to tell Yimt he was going back to the camp when the group came to a sudden halt. He worked his way to the front and found Yimt breathing deeply and smiling.

“Ahh, now this is what I’m talking about. Lads, first thing you learn in the soldiering business is you don’t pick a pub on the way it looks. You pick it by the way it smells. Now all of you, take a whiff.” The coming night and cooling temperature had not yet had a dampening effect on the aroma that was the Nazalla market and Alwyn took a deep breath slowly and with reservations.

At first, all he could smell was manure. Several kinds of manure. He waded through the many variations and then suddenly found a trace of something not entirely repulsive. Stale beer, harsh tobacco smoke, the charred tang of roasting meat, and sweat were clearly coming from a doorway off to their left. His mouth began to salivate and suddenly his throat was parched and his stomach rumbling. He could always go back to camp after he’d had something to eat.

He saw Yimt looking at him and smiling.

“That, my lads, is the smell of nerve-anna,” Yimt said.

“She’s a pungent tart,” Teeter offered.

Yimt seemed to be counting under his breath for a few seconds. “Not a she, an it. Ain’t you ever read a book of words? Nerve-anna-it means a place of special wonderfulness, and in this place, that’s called the Blue Scorpion.” He turned and motioned for them to follow, stepping through the darkened doorway and disappearing. Alwyn followed suit, watching the ground carefully so as not to trip up on his wooden leg. He passed through two sets of hanging beads after untangling them from his musket, then down a narrow hall and through another set of beads. He emerged in what up to that point he had only ever read about-a den of iniquity.

It was hard to tell where the ceiling was because a layer of dense, blue-tinged smoke hovered about six feet above the floor. Alwyn took a step and looked down. Carpets covered every inch of the floor. Each was a work of art with intricate designs of flowers and fruits that looked almost as real as paintings.

“Where do we sit?” Scolly asked.

Alwyn started to say chairs, then realized there was no furniture. Fat, wide pillows replaced chairs, and an array of silver, brass, and wood platters substituted for tables.

The patrons of the Blue Scorpion studied them closely as they entered, and though the buzz of conversation quieted, it did not stop. It took Alwyn a moment to realize there were only men here. Each brown face looked as if it had spent a lifetime in the sun, which Alwyn figured they probably had. The men wore the native garb of layered cloth wraps that flowed loosely about them. The colors were not nearly as bright as the cloth Alwyn had seen in the market, though. To a man they wore small, white cylindrical hats on their heads and everyone was clean-shaven. Yimt’s beard didn’t seem to bother them, or perhaps the muskets over their shoulders stopped their tongues.

A short, stocky man wearing an apron over his robes came bustling up to them and bowed. Yimt returned the bow and the two began conversing in what Alywn assumed must be the local language. At one point Yimt pointed to Hrem, then at Alwyn’s leg, and finally began gesturing with his shatterbow. The hum in the pub quieted, then grew in volume as the weapon traced an arc about the room. After that there was more bowing and the conversation between Yimt and the man was clearly concluded.

“Welcome, most honored guests, to the Blue Scorpion,” the man said. His smile appeared genuine and he sounded friendly, but Alwyn noticed Yimt’s shatterbow was not yet slung. “Please, I have room for you in the back.” They followed and found a large area partially secluded from the rest of the room by hanging curtains of fine, green-colored mesh. Dark blue pillows with gold tassels at each corner formed a circle around a large brass and glass contraption that Alywn had noticed at the center of other groups in the pub. Apparently it was for smoking, though just how it worked he couldn’t yet tell.

“Grab a pillow and get comfortable. Oh,” Yimt said, as they began to sit down, “and keep your muskets by your side.”

“You expecting trouble?” Hrem asked, looking around the pub. He took a deep breath to swell up his chest and create an even more imposing impression. Normally, this was an impressive sight, but the effect was somewhat lessened by the fact that he immediately doubled over coughing after breathing in a lungful of the blue smoke. A few patrons looked over their way, but most were back to smoking, drinking, and talking. If it wasn’t for the pillows, rugs, and funny smoking devices it could pretty much be a pub back home.

“Always,” Yimt said, making a great show of sitting down with his back to the room and setting his shatterbow on a pillow beside him. There was an audible sigh in the pub and the conversation grew more relaxed. “But we should be fine here. The owner is a practical man and he knows which way the wind’s blowing. At the moment, the Empire trumps all. Still, an Imperial-made musket is worth a few gold coins, so guard them like you can’t afford to pay for a new one.”

Alwyn checked for the exits. He couldn’t relax the way Yimt did. Wherever the dwarf went he seemed at ease. Alwyn kept an eye on the room as he eased himself down onto a pillow and let his wooden leg stretch out before him. An odd thought occurred to him as he sat down. It was strange, but he was having a hard time remembering what it had been like when he had had two normal legs. The thought became darker a moment later. He had trouble remembering what it had been like before at all. A night that included a pub, dinner, good conversation, and the prospect of nothing more frightening than the bill used to be an event for him. Now, it all seemed so foreign.

“Cheer up, Ally, the night’s just starting,” Yimt said, taking off his shako and unbuttoning his uniform jacket. “For tonight at least, we’ve left all that stuff behind us. No beasties, no dark magic, and no officers.”

Alwyn nodded and gave Yimt a half-smile. “And no salted pork, I hope.”

Yimt laughed. “Now that’s the spirit. Ah, the first order of business,” he said as a waiter arrived with a tray filled with small blue cups. “Take one, but don’t drink just yet.”

Each soldier took a cup, even Inkermon. Alwyn looked into his and saw an amber-colored liquid. It smelled faintly of wood and wasn’t unpleasant. He sat up straighter on his pillow as Yimt addressed the group.

“Gentlemen, and I use the term recklessly, we’ve been to hell and back more times than a centipede has legs.”

Scolly started to count the fingers on one hand, but Teeter quietly told him, “It means a lot.”

Yimt continued. “We’ve seen things a person never should, and we’ve done a few things a person could come to regret.”

There was quiet as each soldier contemplated the words. Even the background noise subsided. Alwyn felt his pulse quickening and forced himself to stay calm. The thoughts racing in his head were just that, thoughts. They were in a pub, not on one of the islands.

“The life of a sigger ain’t an easy one, and the life of an Iron Elf is harder still.” There were nods of agreement. “It’d be as easy as warm pie on a cold day to get a bit twisted up inside about it all, and who’s to blame you? They don’t pay us near enough for this.”

There were a few forced laughs. Alwyn tried to come up with an amount that would compensate for everything that had happened, but no pile of gold coins seemed worth it.

“Still, we’re here today when others aren’t, and that’s something. So,” Yimt said, raising his cup, “to all those poor, good souls that didn’t make it this far I say this.”

Alwyn and all the others joined in as they raised their cups in response.

“Rest easy. Your work is done. We’ll take it from here, you bloody slackers!”

They drank, and then set the cups down. For a moment, each soldier simply looked around the group. There was nothing to say. Many had fallen, but they remained. And while they did, that was, indeed, something.

“Now,” Yimt said, breaking the spell, “what say we get ready for a feast. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling a mite peckish.”