That time was here again.
Her Emissary motioned the winged creature to it, and it obliged by hopping up onto the table. The Viceroy cringed, expecting the table to collapse under its weight, but the table held firm. The dragon opened its mouth and dropped a smaller bird onto the table. Leathery feathers shed over the top.
"This is how you feed it?" he asked, inching toward the window where warmer air now blew into the room.
"Watch." The shadows that made up Her Emissary reached out and entwined themselves around the sreex and began pulling the hapless creature apart. Wet, tearing sounds filled the room as blood and bits of flesh spattered the table. The dragon watched the process intently. After a few moments, a small cylinder lay in a pool of blood on the table, directly over the dragon's maw pictured there.
"What is that?" the Viceroy whispered.
Her Emissary ignored him, instead whisking away the carcass of the sreex onto the floor, when the dragon pounced on it at once, diving into the bloody mess and coming up with dripping chunks of flesh that it threw down its throat by flinging its head back and forth in short, choppy motions. The ceiling and walls near the feeding dragon turned progressively redder with each mouthful.
The Viceroy swallowed air and turned back to the table. The tube was open, revealing a thin strip of parchment.
"A message?" he asked, thankful there was reason behind the bloody nightmare he found himself in.
For an answer, inky tendrils unrolled the parchment and laid it flat on the table. As the dragon continued to feed, the Viceroy walked over to the table and looked down. The writing on the parchment was nothing more than sticks and dots.
"It's encoded," he said, feeling a sense of control over the situation for the first time that night. "I spent some time in the Black Room when I first started out in the Diplomatic Corps," he said. This thing before him had once worked for the Royal Cryptology Service breaking codes as well. He leaned forward for a closer look. "I recognize the patternit's a Linie cipher, really quite simple to break; I'm surprised you need my help for this."
Her Emissary hissed. The dragon looked up and turned a bloodstained eye on the Viceroy before resuming its meal.
"We care nothing for the message." The temperature in the room grew colder still.
The Viceroy abandoned pretense and wrapped his arms around his body. Not even the warm air coming through the window helped now. His breath began misting in front of him and he knew he had to get out, or he would die in the most absurd way in the middle of this sweltering land. He had made up his mind to run for the door when the top of the table shimmered and the parchment dissolved into its surface. The Viceroy blinked and looked again. Solid wood was changing before his eyes, and he was suddenly looking at blue sky.
He forgot about the cold and bent over the table, an act that felt like leaning over the edge of a cliff.
His vantage point was that of a winged creature. He recognized the plain of Qundi at once, its twisted mass of vines shimmering in a heat he couldn't imagine at that moment. As he watched, he saw a regiment begin marching across the plain, its progression a black line through the twisted green. The image faded, to be replaced by one of nightfall, the same regiment now encamped. More images flowed through the wood and the Viceroy saw faeraugs attack, a desperate struggle, the very strip of parchment being fed to the sreex that now resided in the stomach of the dragon not five feet away.
He saw everything.
"Use it well, and keep it safe from harm," Her Emissary said. A frigid breeze whistled through the room and it was gone.
The Viceroy barely noticed. He gripped the edges of the table and accepted the freezing pain.
"Show me more."
TWENTY-SIX
There's a small village to the north of us on the Olopol River," Konowa said, holding out the folded map for the Prince to take a look.
They were riding at the head of the regiment as it marched across the plain. Konowa had lost count of just how many days they'd been on the move, but it felt like an eternity, and still, it showed no sign of ending. As far as the human, elfkynan, dwarf, or elf eye could see, the plain shimmered with green heat above vines bulging with hidden terrors.
The Prince let his mount's reins drape around its neck and used both hands to push back the shako on his head, revealing a clear line between the pale white skin of his forehead and the now-most-unroyal ruddy complexion of his face. The areas under the arms of his silver-green coatee were black with sweat, and he was constantly fidgeting on his saddle, now denuded of its fur covering. Konowa knew, in fact, that the Prince had developed a rather virulent heat rash, a tale Rallie had enjoyed sharing with him the night before.
Hope it rubs you right raw, Konowa thought, careful to keep his face neutral as he leaned over a little more with the map.
"What? Oh, yes, fine. Can we make it there by nightfall?" the Prince asked, not even bothering to look at the map.
Zwindarra snapped his head around at the map and Konowa cuffed him on the ears. The horses and brindos had grown testy, reacting to the heat and the stress as badly as the troops. The muraphants, on the other hand, had become so lethargic that it took a musket with a blank charge fired at their hindquarters to get them up and moving.
Not even the piece of mountain pressed against Konowa's chest seemed immune. It had been days since he felt even a twinge of cold emanate from the pouch, and he was starting to wonder if he had somehow exhausted its power.
"If we push on through the afternoon I think so," Konowa said, deciding then and there it was better to risk a few more cases of heatstroke than to stay out on the plain another day…and night.
There had been no further faeraug attacks, but the temporary camps they set up each afternoon to avoid marching in the heat of the day had been anything but relaxed. The strain, both mental and physical, was taking its toll. The troops grew more sullen and quarrelsome with each mile. Fights broke out over dirty looks. Two more floggings were ordered by the Prince in a fit of pique, and no matter what Konowa said, he would not be talked out of it. The act, predictably, bred even more resentment and tension and created a growing cadre with an ax to grind, spurred on, he knew, by Kritton.
"Very good, Major, we'll press on," the Prince said, sitting up straighter in his saddle.
He made it sound as if it was his own idea, nodding as if the world was in complete agreement with everything that tumbled from his lips. Konowa reasoned that a person brought up to be King probably came to believe that everything was his own idea, even when it was spoon-fed to him.
"They have some very talented weavers in this part of the world, did you know?" the Prince said, turning about in his saddle to look around them and back at the regiment snaked out in their wake.
"Weavers, Colonel?" Konowa asked, wondering if this was the nit's attempt at small talk.
"Weavers, Major, spinners of yarn, makers of cloth. Elfkynan embroideries are famous the world over, and quite prized among the finer households in the capital."
"I can't say as I've seen any, sir," he said truthfully. Zwindarra started as a butterfly flew up from a vine in front of his face. "Bloody idiot," he said, then turned and saw the Prince's eyes narrowing. "Oh, the horse, sir, scared of his own shadow. You were telling me about the embroideries…"
The Prince relaxed visibly in the saddle and pulled a hanky from the end of a sleeve, dabbing his brow with it. Konowa got a whiff of perfume and bent forward to adjust a stirrup, taking in a deep breath of the gelding's musky scent to counter the cloying smell.
"I think it's their delicate features, especially their fingers," the Prince said, clearly warming to his subject. He held the hanky in one hand and moved the fingers of the other over it as if playing the piano. "Marvelous dexterity. Tens upon tens of thousands of stitches in some of the larger ones. I've heard rumor that they employ a certain form of magic to make them as ornate as they do. What do you think?"
Konowa looked at the Prince, surprised. "About wh
at, sir?"
The Prince gave an annoyed flick of his head. "The stitching. Do you think they use magic?"
Maybe the heat's frying what part of a brain he's got, Konowa thought. "I really don't know, sir, but I suppose they might, though it seems a bit of a waste, if you ask me. I'd think they'd want to use magic for something more useful."
The Prince tut-tutted him. "You must keep in mind, Major, that we are dealing with a simple people here. The elfkynan aren't as evolved as us humans, or even you Hynta-elves, for that matter."
Zwindarra neighed and stamped a hoof, and Konowa unclenched his fists and let the reins slide through his fingers until the horse's head was back at a more comfortable position. "Very kind of His Highness to say."
The Prince waved away the compliment, completely oblivious to the sarcasm. "It's true." He suddenly leaned over in his saddle, looking furtively around them like a child with a big secret. "They are a simple, earthy folk, swayed by beliefs in things they cannot see. They don't think like we do, Major, which is why the Empire is here. They need us. They need our guiding hand to become civilized. The Star of Sillra is the perfect example. I've studied the origin of the Stars for years, you know, talked with the finest scholars and wizards on the subject, including your father, I might add," he said, still casting around to see if they were in danger of being overheard.
"My father never mentioned it," Konowa said flatly. Wizards, royalty, and their intrigues. Ideas born in the flickering shadows of midnight candles and snifters of brandy that invariably sent soldiers like him tramping through some gods'-forsaken land in search of what only the mages and their patrons knew. This time, he knew the whatat least, he thought he did. He looked at the Prince's eager face and felt the cold sharp bite of the stone beneath his uniform.
"Absentminded, the lot of them," the Prince continued, rolling his eyes with a patronizing shake of his head. "But the Stars are real, rest assured. And yet, the elfkynan do not see the Star's real purpose. They think of nothing more than to use it to rid themselves of the Empire, ignorant of the irony! They themselves call the Stars sources of knowledge, yet would use it as no more than a bludgeon." He spurred his horse a little closer to Konowa's. "On the other hand, your father and the other wizards I've spoken to all believe we should claim the Star so that we might use its power against the Shadow Monarch. Again, only seeing it as a weapon, however much more sophisticated their use of it might be."
Konowa couldn't hide his surprise. "You have other ideas?"
The Prince tapped his nose with his free hand. "I do, but it's been difficult to get Her Majesty to understand. This new Viceroy has convinced her and many in her court that the Stars are weapons," he said. His mouth was puckered as if he had just swallowed something sour.
Konowa took the opening before his better judgment could stop him. "Aren't they?"
The Prince was upright in his saddle and looking around as if wanting to strike something. "Untold mysteries lie buried throughout the world, waiting only for a man of vision and destiny to find them. The Empire has a duty to procure the artifacts of time and power and preserve them, to mine them for their secrets, not to destroy them out of hand or turn them into swords to be wielded by simple-minded generals."
The spell dropped, the pieces suddenly falling into place. Konowa looked at the Prince with newfound loathing. "You wish to collect this Star for a museum?"
The Prince turned his face to the sun, and for a moment appeared to glow in his own magnificence. "Not just a museum, Major, a temple of knowledge! Can you not see it? A great hall of learning where scholars, alchemists, wizards, artists, and more would come together to study and share their ideas."
"A school, then," Konowa said, fighting back the bile creeping up his throat.
"Precisely! The Queen's advisors hold ever-increasing sway in Her court, and all fear the coming changes. They would simply eradicate every amulet and potion that is of a design they do not understand! Ruwl and the Imperial Army see only weapons that must be harnessed to the Empire's carriage. I favor the witches and wizards more, even though they covet the magic as a drunk does his mead. They are a miserly bunch when it comes to sharing their knowledge, but with the proper encouragement, I will see to it that the world is brought into the light."
"Perhaps they have reason to keep their secrets?"
The Prince shook his head even as he settled back into the saddle and took a deep breath. "Their days of shadowy dealings are coming to an end. When we find the Star, we will have begun the birth of a new age."
"What about the Shadow Monarch, and the extinct creatures coming back?" Konowa asked, marveling at the Prince's ego as he did so.
"Of little importance, really," he said, turning to Konowa and gracing him with a pitying smile. "You, and everyone else for that matter, think we're out here to crush a rebellion and banish the Shadow Monarch to her High Forest. No. The finding of the Eastern Star is nothing less than the coming of a new age of enlightenment. Imagine, Major, a world where men can study in peace and tranquility, guided by the greatest powers ever known. Now that is a worthy goal, one that will redeem you a thousand times over."
Konowa grabbed Zwindarra's mane in his hand to steady himself as he felt the blood drain from his face. "Are you serious?"
The Prince laughedand it was the most frightening thing Konowa had heard since the trip across the plains began. "When we succeed, all of it will fall into place. You and the Iron Elves are going to help me create the greatest repository of knowledge and wisdom ever witnessed in the history of civilization. When we find the Star, we will use it to find the others. Even the Shadow Monarch will bow before me, Her power bent to my will as surely as I command this regiment. If not, then She shall be destroyed…although it would be a shame to lose Her wisdom. Do you not see, Major? Our quest is not for a single source of magic. Our quest is to have them all."
TWENTY-SEVEN
A regiment on the march is not a quiet beast.
Metal-banded canteens clattered against wooden musket stocks with each thud of a hobnailed boot. Breath whistled through noses misshapen by barstools and barmaids, and between missing teeth, courtesy of same, laced with wit, pleas, groans, and curses. Spit and matter less liquid flew freely, expelled with a rasping smack of sun-cracked lips, leaving a trail of wet stains and gaining the attention of insects large and small who converged on the sweating mass in a thrumming buzz. The serried rows of soldiers took up a ragged applause in response as hundreds of hands slapped away their tormentors, cursing each and every one.
Accompanied, as the Iron Elves were, by horses, brindos, and a baggage train of muraphants, there was the added sound of creaking wagon axles, the rhythmic friction of jute ropes, the clink of bridles and bits, the swish of tails, the clomp of hoovescloven and notand the respective calls of animals as annoyed with their current lot as the soldiers that marched with them.
You'd have to be deaf not to hear a regiment on the march. Or dead.
The order to halt echoed down the line, and the regiment creaked to a ragged stop. Nervousness washed over the men like an incoming tide.
Alwyn strained to hear some kind of commotion up ahead. It would be dark in another hour or so, and even though the faeraugs had not bothered them again, he still expected to see them every night when the sun went down.
There was no sound beyond a few coughs and a single bellow from a muraphant. The soldiers near Alwyn started to fidget and look around them, scanning the vines for movement. Teeter, a former sailor with a limp, had his pipe lit in an instant. He tilted to the side as if leaning into a stiff breeze, his leathery face beaming satisfaction. Another soldier took off his shako, revealing an apple-sized divot missing from the back of his head. He saw Alwyn staring and glared back, giving him a very rude hand gesture to boot.
"Don't mind Scolly," a third soldier said, his face temporarily hidden behind a large, pink hanky he was using to mop the sweat from his face. When he removed it, Alwyn saw the round, chubby fa
ce of a middle-aged man who looked as if he should have been at home delivering milk.
"Alwyn Renwar," Alwyn said, sticking out his hand.
"I know. Poor luck having to flog the elf, but from what I hear, he deserved it."
Alwyn nodded and said nothing.
"Alik Senerson, by the way," the soldier said, shaking his hand, "formerly of the Queen's Tamburian Guards." His face betrayed his offense a moment later in reaction to Alwyn's open-mouthed response. "Not all Guardsmen are six-foot oaks; there are a few normal-sized men in the ranks. I was the pay clerk…until a small accounting discrepancy, that is."
"Oh," Alwyn said. "So what's the deal with that fellow over there?"
Alik dabbed at his face again with the pink hanky and nodded toward Scolly. "That miscreant yonder is Scolfelton Erinmoss, son of the Earl of Boryn. Fell off a horse when he was ten and got impaled on a wooden stake. It's a miracle he survived, but of course, he hasn't been right ever since."
Thunder boomed in the distance.
"You smell that?"
The voice startled Alwyn, and it took him a moment to realize Yimt had asked him a question. "What?"
"That stench. That's why we stopped."
Alwyn sniffed the air. There was something, and it was far more disgusting than the current gamey fragrance of the Iron Elves. "What is it?"
There was the sound of boots and Regimental Sergeant Major Lorian came into view. He leaned against his halberd to catch his breath. "Arkhorn, fall out and bring your section with you."
"Yes, Sergeant Major," Yimt said, and motioned for the section to step out of line.
As they marched past the rest of the regiment, Alwyn couldn't help but notice that the other troops were giving them an odd look. It surprised him to realize it was pity. What, he wondered, did they know that he didn't?
A Darkness Forged in Fire Page 21