by Chris Evans
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.”
FIFTEEN
Out in Nazalla Bay, the water rippled with the passing of a creature a few feet underneath the surface. It swam past the Black Spike and other ships at anchor and made straight for the shore.
Seven figures detached themselves from the shadows in the lee of a small hut and walked toward the shoreline.
The rippling water stopped and the body of Kester Harkon broke the surface. Its eyes were open and water gurgled from its mouth as it tried to scream. The jaws holding it released and slid back into the water and out of sight.
A hand quickly covered Harkon’s mouth as others grabbed the body and lifted it from the water and began carrying it away.
From farther out in the water, the creature rose again to watch the figures disappear into the night. It then slid back beneath the surface and swam past the Black Spike and headed not back out to sea, but into a river inlet.
From high up in the mast of the Black Spike, three pairs of eyes followed the creature’s progress until it vanished around a bend. Tyul Mountain Spring looked up at Dandy, the massive silver-beaked falcon perched in the crow’s nest, and whistled quietly to it. Dandy stretched out its neck and spread its wings, pumping them slowly. A squirrel perched on Tyul’s shoulder chittered quietly in his ear. Tyul reached up a hand as Jurwan jumped into it, and placed him inside his tunic. Tyul then climbed up the rigging until he was in the crow’s nest. Dandy’s wings flapped faster and then he launched himself skyward, grabbing Tyul gently by the shoulders with his talons.
Dandy rose a few more feet in the air, then pointed his body downward, tucking in his wings as he did so. Falcon, elf, and squirrel plummeted toward the water. At the last instant, Dandy spread his wings and soared just feet above the waves, angling toward the shore. A moment later he unclenched his talons. Tyul landed on the ground without a sound while Dandy flew into the night and was gone.
Tyul knelt and sifted the sand through his hands for several moments, then looked up, his eyes unblinking.
He walked quickly across the sand and past the hut, following a trail. He carried no weapons in his hands and only his bow and quiver on his back. Dressed in greens and browns and covered in leaf tattoos, he was invisible in the forest, but the dock area of Nazalla was no forest, though dangerous creatures also prowled there.
Two of them watched the elf walk into a narrow alley they knew had no exit, and followed in after him. Dressed in blacks and grays, only their knives glinted as they were pulled from tunics.
This would be easy.
The dunes of the Hasshugeb Expanse disappeared over the horizon in every direction. Under the moonlight, the gentle uniformity of their shape gave the desert the appearance of an ocean frozen in time just before the waves crested and began to tumble downward. Dark, curving shadows carved great chunks out of the far side of the dunes under their peaks, creating black holes where no light shone.
Perfect hiding places, Her Emissary thought.
Her Emissary moved to the first dune, still tired from its transformation and the power required to travel the great distance from Her mountain to here. A trail of black frost twinkled in its wake.
At the first shadow, it bent and placed an acorn from the Shadow Monarch’s Wolf Oak in the darkness and waited. Black flame sparked to life, but then guttered and went out.
Her Emissary stared at the sand. Was Her power not strong enough here? As soon as the thought entered its mind, it was banished. Something else was at work.
It reached out and touched the sand. White flame burst to life and Her Emissary’s moonlit shadow caught fire. The pain was exquisite. Every fiber of its being twisted in agony. It stood up and called forth the frost fire, struggling to put out the flame. Every second Her Emissary’s shadow burned, it knew it was dying. Marshaling its remaining energy, Her Emissary focused the frost fire and finally extinguished the flames. The distraction, however, had served its purpose.
Sand erupted in a geyser behind Her Emissary, hurtling it into the side of a dune. It jumped to its feet only to feel its shadow engulfed in white flame again.
Two scaly beasts crawled forth from a sandy pit, spitting fire. Pain once again wracked Her Emissary’s body. Through the roaring flame, Her Emissary saw great jaws lined with sharp teeth and eyes flickering with white fire.
“You are children of kaman Rhal,” Her Emissary said, the knowledge of its former self, Viceroy Faltinald Gwyn, coming back. It called forth more of the power of the black acorn deep in its chest. Her Emissary accepted the pain of the white fire as it marshaled icy flames like obsidian blades at its fingertips. When the frost fire was strong enough, it lanced out like a scythe, slicing into the scales of the creatures, which screamed ragged coughs of flame. The closest took the brunt of the black flame and collapsed in a writhing mass. The second climbed over the first, spitting more white flame and fusing the sand into glass underneath Her Emissary in an attempt to immobilize it. Molten glass seared Her Emissary’s skin even as the white flame burned it from the inside. The creature charged, its jaws opening wider in anticipation.
Her Emissary focused the power, fashioning a long, flickering spear of pure frost fire in its hand. As the creature lunged, Her Emissary stabbed down with the spear into the creature’s open mouth and down its throat. White and black flame spread across the sand, locked in a savage duel. The air steamed and shimmered, then crackled with ice.
The creature thrashed and tried to bite at the spear of flame, but its efforts slowly subsided. It then shuddered and fell to the sand, now motionless. The white flames died as the frost fire overtook them. Soon, there was nothing left of the two creatures but ash and one small piece of bone in each pile. Her Emissary bent to grab one, but before it could, a single white flame consumed each fragment and then was gone.
Standing up straight, Her Emissary looked around the dunes, the flaming spear still clutched in its hand. Nothing. No further threats. It was severely hurt, but pain was now its natural state of being. Its pain was nothing if it helped the Shadow Monarch achieve Her goals. Her Emissary flowed its senses outward, searching for more of Kaman Rhal’s creatures, but detected no sign of them. Satisfied, it let the flame die out.
It moved to the next dune and placed an acorn in its shadow. This time, black frost fire sprouted from the sand, followed by an inky black tendril of a sarka har.
Yes, Her forest would grow here.
Her Emissary began walking the dunes. As the acorns fell, the sarka har took root and began to grow. Roots dug deep into the sand, searching for the rock beneath. There was a power here, bitter, thin, and old, but it was energy nonetheless and it could be used.
Branches stretched to the sky, clawing the air as if to pull the very stars from the blackness. Her Emissary knew it was not in vain—after all—the Stars were returning. The Shadow Monarch had lost the first one. She would not lose another.
Her Emissary walked south, cutting across the desert with Her forest growing and rising behind it like a black, gaping wound. A small village stood in its way, and succumbed, the screams of the dying ringing like crystal on the night air. Still Her Emissary headed south, angling the line of trees toward a point in the desert only it could see.
Her Emissary needed no map, for it was guided by something stronger. It felt
it.
Another Star would soon fall.
The power long banished from the world was returning, and it was as palpable as the crunching frost under its feet. Her Emissary quickened in its task. Konowa Swift Dragon and the Iron Elves would come seeking the Star, but they would already be too late.
Her Emissary was right. Konowa would not be the first to find the fallen Star.
But neither would Her Emissary.
Alwyn shifted on the pillows serving as his seat, but couldn’t get comfortable. His stomach rumbled. He had tried a bit of everything, including the roast lamb, but food had little appeal to him. It was as if his normal senses were no longer connected to his body. He scanned the room again. Any one of the patrons in the Blue Scorpion could be a spy for the Shadow Monarch, or even an assassin. He fidgeted some more and pulled his musket a little closer.
The sloshing of liquid made him turn. A waiter had quietly refilled his cup without Alwyn’s even hearing him approach. He vowed not to be surprised like that again even as he raised the cup to his lips and downed the liquid in one gulp. The rumbling in his stomach subsided and a warm wave moved through his muscles. He reached forward and grabbed one of the smoking tubes from the hookah and brought it to his lips, taking a long, slow puff. Water gurgled in the apparatus with a satisfying rumble. The smoke was cool and smooth in his throat, and when he blew it out several seconds later, he had stopped fidgeting.
“My leg doesn’t hurt,” he said to no one in particular. He patted the wood where his knee would be and said it again. “Can’t flee…feel, a thing.” The room was gently spinning. It was a strange effect. He wondered how they did it.
“Course you can’t feel it, it ain’t there,” Teeter said, ignoring the shared smoking device and drawing on his pipe. He pursed his lips and then blew a smoke ring across the room. An elderly man smoking a hookah had accepted the challenge and was blowing smoke rings back. Each time one got his ring to intersect the other’s, a few men clapped.