The Light of Burning Shadows

SIX

A ship-of-the-line on the high seas is a marvelously graceful and robust creature. Ribs of oak fully twice as thick as a man’s chest, miles of rope tendons, acres of canvas muscle, teeth of brass and iron able to tear apart anything that came within their grasp, and skin of pine, copper, and tar make it the single largest collection of manmade parts ever assembled.

A ship-of-the-line is, however, an equally delicate collection of parts that is forever perched perilously in the water on a thin keel, like a walker on a rope stretched taut across a cliff. Balance is everything. Should it tip too far to either side, it would begin a downward fall into the deep abyss.

Alwyn preferred the open water. The knowledge that his life hung on the slender threads of the craftsmanship of the shipwrights, the vagaries of the weather, and the skill of the Black Spike ’s crew filled him, perversely, with a sense of calm. Everything changed when he set foot on shore. On land his anguish was boundless, as if it grew from the very depths of the earth and flowed through him. Out here, however, he found a certain peace, although the nightmares of Her remained.

He could almost convince himself there was still a chance things could return to the way they were before.

Someone coughed and Alwyn looked up from cleaning his musket, setting aside the rag coated in brick dust he’d been using to buff the metal to a bright sheen. The black flames of the frost fire burned away blood and other fleshy bits-a neat trick all the soldiers had quickly put to use-but rust in the salty sea air bloomed orange and red every night on any bare metal left exposed. In the army, there was always something a corporal or sergeant would give you grief about.

The surviving members of Yimt’s section were grouped around one of the ship’s sixty-eight-pounder carronades on the upper gun deck. It seemed appropriate to Alwyn that Sergeant Arkhorn would secure them a spot on the ship near a weapon characterized by its short, powerful, and temperamental nature. Firing a sixty-eight-pound cannon ball at a low muzzle velocity meant the projectile didn’t fly all that far, but it hit with a vengeance. The slower speed resulted in the shot splintering any wood it struck instead of punching a hole straight through. The result was absolute havoc as a shower of deadly splinters sprayed forth from the impact. Unsurprisingly, the carronade had earned the nickname Smasher. No, Alwyn was not surprised at all that Yimt had chosen this as their home on the sea.

Most of the Iron Elves were quartered deeper in the ship, and it occurred to Alwyn that he rarely saw Yimt go down there. He was rarely here on the upper gun deck either, preferring instead to stay topside. Perhaps the dwarf enjoyed the waves and the wind.

Scolfelton Erinmoss, son of the Earl of Boryn, lay sleeping beside the gun, his mouth open, with drool hanging from his bottom lip. Despite his upper-class pedigree, he was simply known as Scolly. An apple-sized divot in the back of his head caused by a childhood injury had rendered him imbecilic and prone to angry outbursts. It had not, however, if the rumors were to be believed, made him ineligible to be the next Earl of Boryn.

Inkermon sat on a wooden crate, writing a never-ending letter, having gone to eleven pieces of parchment, both sides. To whom it was addressed remained a closely guarded secret and of some interest to the other soldiers. He looked up, sniffed and shook his head, and went back to his writing, mumbling about how they were all going to burn.

Beside Inkermon, Hrem Vulhber, a welcome addition to the group, reclined his massive bulk against an equally massive oak timber. He was reading an old copy of the Imperial Weekly Herald, his lips moving as he did so. Less welcome was the soldier leaning against the carronade and riffling through a small leather pouch. Zwitty laughed as he pulled out a small chunk of gold and put it in a hidden pocket inside his upturned shako. Alwyn thought the piece looked very much like a tooth, but said nothing.

“Out plundering again, Zwitty?” Teeter asked, pointing his unlit pipe at him. The ex-sailor with a limp that threatened to topple him over with each step had strung up a hammock from the low ceiling and was gently swaying with the motion of the ship.

“To the victors go the spoils,” Zwitty said, quickly putting the leather pouch away and tucking his shako under his arm. “There’s been loot on every island if you’ve got half a brain to look for it.”

“You mean dead natives,” Hrem said, looking up from his reading.

Zwitty made a long face. “That’s right. They’s dead, ain’t they? Finders keepers, I always says.”

“Robbing from the dead is one thing,” Hrem said, “but these poor souls we find out here are cursed. You take from them, you take the curse.”

A large vein began to throb noticeably on Zwitty’s forehead. “Cursed? You want to talk about curses! We’re the unlucky bastards that got cursed. The way I see it, we’re owed. We’re owed more than our wages and more than some stinkin’ ten gold pieces the Prince is offering for finding one of them dirty black elves alive.”

“Steady on, Zwitty, you’re getting yourself all worked up,” Teeter said. “This ain’t half bad, what we got here. Grog and wine for your drink, two hot meals a day, and a hammock to keep your bones off the floor.”

Zwitty spat onto the deck. “If it’s so grand, why are you in the army then, and not still in your precious navy, eh?”

Alwyn found his fist clenching and made a point to fold the cleaning rag up instead.

Teeter’s cheeks flushed. “I missed my ship when she set sail for the Battle of the Inthaal Sea, and they nailed me for doin’ a runner. Said I was lacking in moral fiber in the face of the enemy when all I was was drunk and sleeping it off. The lads shoulda come get me before they shipped out, but the bastards didn’t.”

Zwitty grinned. Alwyn found himself folding the rag so tight he was creating a small red dust cloud in his hands.

“So you’re not a coward then, just a drunk? Hardly seems better. Not that it matters anyway, because you’re as doomed as the rest of us.” He looked around at them. “Don’t you get it, our holy roller there’s got it right,” he said, pointing to Inkermon, who began to write even faster. “We’ve been press-ganged into something none of us signed up for. You know what they say about curses, though…” Zwitty said, letting the thought hang in the air.

Alwyn actually didn’t know what they said and was about to ask, but Teeter sat up straight in his hammock and pointed his pipe at Zwitty.

“You just stow that kind of talk right now.”

Zwitty sneered. “I’m not saying nothing, but if a certain someone were to lose their head, I’d wager we’d be free of this curse before his pointy ear hit the-”

A large, meaty hand belonging to Private Hrem Vulhber shot across the top of the carronade and grabbed Zwitty by the collar. “When’s the last time you went topside for a nice long walk? Personally, I think you’re overdue.”

Zwitty’s face began turning purple. He dropped his shako to the deck, spilling the contents while both hands clawed at Hrem’s, trying to pry himself loose. Finally, Hrem released him and Zwitty stumbled backward, drawing in great gasping breaths. “I could have you up on charges for that. There are witnesses.”

Alwyn looked at the other soldiers lounging about the carronade.

“No one saw anything, Zwitty,” Alwyn said, reaching down to pick up Zwitty’s shako. Zwitty grabbed it out of his hand and quickly stuffed his fallen loot back inside.

“You’re all fools. We can end this curse, but none of you has the guts to do it.”

“Guts to do what?”

Alwyn looked up as Yimt appeared from behind another carronade and strolled up to stand beside Zwitty. Despite his significantly shorter stature, the dwarf simply exuded confidence that made him appear like a giant.

“Zwitty here was just telling us how he’s going to try walking along the railing up top,” Hrem said. “Says he can make it all the way round the ship without falling over. Wants us to try it with him, but we’re all rather comfy here at the moment, so he’s off to try it alone. Ain’t that right, Zwitty?”

Zwitty glared at Hrem, but only nodded.

“Well, aren’t you the daring fellow,” Yimt said, patting Zwitty firmly on the arm and propelling him away from the group. “Off you go then, and watch when you get near the bow. The major’s been revisiting his last couple of meals up there and the wood’s a bit slick.”

Zwitty muttered something none of them could hear and quickly strode away. It wasn’t until Zwitty had disappeared from sight that Alwyn realized he had been holding his breath and let it out slowly.

“Now then, what are you reprobates up to?” Yimt asked, leaning against the swell of the carronade’s muzzle and rubbing his back against the iron.

“Oh, discussing the whys and whats of life and love,” Hrem said, flexing his hand as he got comfortable again against the oak rib. “Out getting some fresh air again, were you? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t like it down here.”

Yimt stiffened, then smiled and laughed. “What’s not to like? It smells like a dead sheep around here.”

Alwyn took a cautious sniff, then immediately regretted his decision. They really did smell like dead sheep. Very old, very wet, and very dead sheep.

“Tain’t our fault,” Teeter offered from his hammock. “The soap they give us is made of mutton fat.”

“You’ve used it then?” Yimt asked.

Teeter waved his unlit pipe in the affirmative. “In a manner of speaking. I traded it to one of the sailors for some chewing tobacco. Can’t smoke down here, more’s the pity.”

“Oh, you’re a clever bunch, you lot,” Yimt said, bowing his head as if in great sorrow. “It’s a wonder the Empire’s lasted as long as it has if this is the caliber of siggers there are to defend it.”

“You could always jump ship and swim for it,” Hrem said. “Of course, with those metal teeth of yours, I imagine you’d go right to the bottom.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a first-rate swimmer. The mines fill up with water more than you’d think. If a dwarf can’t swim and hold his breath, he ain’t got much of a future. And speaking of futures,” Yimt said, catching Alwyn’s eye and giving him a wink, “yours might be shorter than you think in this elite gathering if you don’t mind your manners. It’s by my good graces alone that you were allowed to join such esteemed company,” Yimt said, pushing himself away from the carronade to walk over and sit on a large coil of rope. “Of course, Private Vulhber, I could assign you to the Color Party. They’re always looking for big lads that can stop a musket ball.”

Hrem made a show of pondering this, though everyone knew the answer. Being a member of the Color Party was a great honor, right up until it stopped being one when you were dead. The enemy always tried to capture the Colors, making the guarding of them crucial in every battle. It also meant you were a prime target. Alwyn himself had volunteered for the Color Party three times now, but Yimt had denied his request.

“No one here’s looking to be a hero,” Hrem said, “well, ’cept maybe Ally there. You keep charging ahead of us like that and you’re bound to come to a sticky end.”

Alwyn smiled and tried to wave it off. “I just get my blood up, you know? I’m not trying to be anything.”

“You’ll be a Darkly Departed is what you’ll be if you don’t watch it,” Teeter added. “You don’t want to be joining our dead like Meri and the rest of those poor souls.”

“I can take care of myself,” Alwyn said. He could feel the color coming to his cheeks. This was nothing he wanted to talk about.

“Now, now, leave the lad alone. He’s young, he’s foolish, and he’s got a magical tree for a leg,” Yimt said. “I think it’s just a matter of the wood wanting to get ashore so it can plant itself and start sprouting some leaves.”

Laughter echoed off the timbers and Alwyn found himself chuckling.

“You mock his plight,” Inkermon said, setting down his parchment and pointing his quill at Yimt.

“He’s just kidding,” Alwyn said. “There’s still hope.”

“Hope? You mock that, too,” Inkermon said. “You all mock this…this abomination that has befallen us. Do you not see? Our curse grows with every passing day. The foul temptress haunts our dreams even as She calls forth creatures long dead, and now the very earth we walk attacks us, burning our very souls alive.”

There was only the sound of the wind and the creaking of wood. Inkermon had touched on something none of them wanted to talk about. Alwyn and Hrem looked at each other, then quickly looked away. Feeling his shadow burn had been pain beyond his experience, but there had been something else as well. For a moment, before he extinguished the white fire, Alwyn had felt a clarity and sense of peace that he had not known since taking the Blood Oath. It was as if Her powers were being cleansed from his very soul.

Yimt slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “Right. Put a big bloody cork in it, all of you,” he said, turning to look each one of them in the eye. “What is or isn’t the state of our eternal rest is a conversation for another day. Right now, it’s time. Grab your kit and get topside. We’re going to honor the poor bastards while the weather holds.”

Hrem climbed to his feet and began buttoning up his tunic. He gave Scolly a gentle nudge with his boot. Scolly opened one eye and looked around.

“Are we going to bury them now?”

No one said anything. Finally, Alwyn nodded. “Yes, Scolly, we’re going to bury them now.”

Scolly opened the other eye and sat up, stretching and yawning as he did so. “Only, I was having a dream and the Shadow Monarch was there. She seemed…happy.”