by Chris Evans
Tyul stepped backward, clutching his hand to his chest. The skeletal man in front of him reached up with one hand and grabbed the hilt of Tyul’s dagger, still stuck in its chest. White fire burst to life and burned with an intensity that made Tyul shield his eyes. Soon the figure’s cloak was aflame and then burned away, revealing a skeleton in the shape of a man. But this had been no man.
The skeleton that stood before him was made of what appeared to be several different creatures. Tyul had seen enough animal carcasses to recognize several horse bones among others he did not. Most of the bones were cracked and ill-used. Many bore teeth marks. Where muscle and tissue had once held bones together, a wet, black tar now kept them in place.
A sane elf would have known to be afraid. Tyul was fascinated. What stood before him were elements of the natural order, but assembled and animated in a way that perverted that order. This close he felt the magic that kept the collection of bones together. Like the sand, it was old and bitter.
“I want to help you,” Tyul said, his voice soft with caring.
White flames still burned where his oath weapon remained stuck between two ribs of the skeleton. The spirit of Tyul’s ryk faurre, Rising Dawn, struggled against the flame. Jurwan peeked out from Tyul’s quiver and started pawing at the back of his neck. Tyul turned. Three more skeletons were closing in on him.
Tyul smiled. “I will help you, too.”
He lunged forward at the first skeleton, grabbing the hilt of his dagger and twisting, knowing the pain would be intense. At the same time he brought his right elbow up and across, smashing it into the skull. There was a snap and the skull went toppling to the ground. Tyul pulled his dagger from its chest, though the skeleton did not fall. It remained standing in place, but now showed no signs of movement. Tyul turned to face the other three.
Each held a long, curved sword made of bone in a skeletal hand. Death whispered on the air as the blades arced toward him, but Tyul jumped gracefully to the side and out of their path. His left hand throbbed, but he kept it clenched on his dagger while with his right hand he reached behind his back for his quiver and grabbed Jurwan by the scruff of the neck. With one fluid motion, he threw the squirrel at the nearest skeleton while he pivoted to attack the other two.
Jurwan flew through the air and landed flat on the front of a skull. He scampered out of the way as the skeleton brought its sword up to cleave him in two. The sword missed Jurwan, but hit above the skeleton’s left eye socket, fracturing a large opening in the skull. Jurwan dove into the opening, his bushy tail disappearing a moment later. White flame flared in the skull’s eye sockets and its lower jaw dropped open in a silent scream. The skeleton crumpled to the ground.
Tyul sidestepped a sword cut and reached down for a large clay pot sitting by a wall. He scooped it up one-handed and swung it like a club against the skull of the nearest skeleton. Both skull and pot smashed, leaving Tyul with just a pottery shard in his right hand. The white fire in the skull’s eye sockets went out immediately as the skeleton wobbled and fell to the ground.
The last intact skeleton lifted its sword high above its head, prepared to strike. Tyul saw his opening and took it, running forward and jamming the dagger and the shard into its eye sockets. The impact shattered the skull in a burst of white fire. Tyul fell backward, both hands numb and twitching. His dagger and the pottery shard slipped from his grasp.
Tyul looked over at the first skeleton. It still stood in place. Jurwan emerged from the wreckage of his opponent and leaped over to the skull with fire still burning inside. He sniffed at it, then turned and chirped to Tyul.
Tyul looked around and gingerly picked up another clay pot in his throbbing hands, wincing as he did so. He calmly walked over to the skull. The white flame grew brighter as he neared and the jaws began to open as if to speak, tipping the skull backward so that the light shone toward the sky. Tyul brought the pot down onto the skull, smashing both. A spear of white flame shot skyward and was gone. A clattering noise marked the collapse of its skeleton as it fell to the ground and disintegrated into a pile of dust.
Voices called out from a nearby building. The sound of running feet echoed off the walls. Tyul bent and picked up his dagger as Jurwan climbed onto his back. He sifted the sand through the fingers of his right hand, then cast it in an arc over the ground.
“You’re welcome,” he remarked, and ran after his quarry.
NINETEEN
I’ve lost sight of Rallie,” Visyna said, holding the hem of her gown as she hurried to follow along. Chayii led her to the far end of the palace grounds, to which Rallie’s wagon and menagerie of animals had been relegated. They passed by several soldiers, who seemed unsure if they should bow or salute or both.
“She knows where we’re going. Hurry, we must hurry,” Chayii said as she darted between some flowering cactuses.
Visyna hoisted her dress up even higher and broke into a run, hoping no one would see her like this. “What is it you think you heard?”
“I heard the voice of Rising Dawn, no matter how faint,” Chayii said, not slowing her pace. “Tyul has used his oath weapon, and not without cost. Another magic is at work here.”
“The Shadow Monarch,” Visyna said.
“I have no doubt Her forces are here, but no, this felt different.” Now she did stop and turned to Visyna. “Did you not hear or feel anything?”
Visyna shook her head. “I’m not sure. Earlier I thought I did sense something, but all the noise at the party made it difficult to understand, and then it was gone.”
Chayii gave her a brief smile. “You are more attuned to the natural order than I thought.”
Visyna blushed slightly at the compliment. Chayii turned and they both ran the rest of the way to Rallie’s wagon. The glow of a cigar tip revealed that the old woman was already there.
“How did you do that?” Visyna asked. “You were behind us when we left the party.”
Rallie blew out a mouthful of smoke and smiled. “I know how to get around. Speaking of which, mind your step, dear. This is definitely a well-attended party.”
Visyna looked down and saw what Rallie meant. Piles of horse and camel manure dotted the lane. The more manure there was to clean up in the morning, the more horses and carriages had been there the night before.
“An odd way to measure the success of a party,” Chayii said.
“Think of it in terms of tracking quarry,” Rallie said. “If this were a forest, you could glean much from what’s scattered on the ground around us, no?”
Chayii made a small bow. “Your city-craft is impressive. I have always had difficulty navigating through large, populated areas such as this. The desecration of the natural order is so violent here.”
Visyna felt it as well. A city oozed pollution like an open wound. The land became sick and the natural power tainted. For weavers of magic such as herself it took great effort to sift through the energy to find clean, usable threads. She sighed. She could spend her whole life purging the polluted energy in Nazalla and still never be done.
The sreexes, Rallie’s batlike courier birds, squawked from inside the covered wagon and a moment later Jir jumped out of the back, his collar and chain no longer attached. He stuck his head high in the air and sniffed.
“Feels good, doesn’t it, boy?” Rallie said, leaning down to scratch the bengar on top of his head.
Jir’s purr grew so loud in volume that the hair on the back of Visyna’s neck began to rise. She gave herself a shake. The bengar was a powerful force even when it was contented.
Visyna quickly changed out of her gown and into travel clothes. She threw the gown into the back of the wagon. Chayii had no need to change, as she’d refused to put on a gown and kept her elven clothing, while Rallie had merely adorned her black cloak with a pink bow, which she now removed and put in an inside pocket.
“There, back to informal. Now, shall we go?” Rallie asked, sitting down on the wagon seat and grabbing up the reins.
Vis
yna and Chayii climbed up after her while Jir hopped into the back, seemingly content now that he wasn’t collared.
“We must find Tyul,” Chayii said. “In his state, he is very unpredictable. I thought he would be safe if left on the ship. I thought they would both be safe.”
Visyna reached out and placed a hand on Chayii’s shoulder. The elf bore more heartache than most. Tyul was dïova gruss, lost in the power of a Silver Wolf Oak. Her husband, Jurwan, was equally enthralled and remained locked in squirrel form.
And then there was her son.
“At least we know where Konowa will be for the next several hours,” Visyna said.
Rallie clicked her tongue and flicked the reins. The brindos tossed their heads, then settled down and began to walk. Looking for all the world like horses wearing dark gray armor, the plates of their tough hides slid over their bodies in an unsettling fashion, while the animals’ floppy ears bounced up and down as they moved forward. Their stubby tails wagged furiously—whether in joy to be on the move, or in a vain attempt to keep away flies, it wasn’t clear.
Chayii smiled. “His childhood was not easy. He was one of the first elves not banished at birth. I was the one who docked his ear. His father had wanted to leave it, to show the Hynta-elves and the world that no son of his would bow to a fate not of his choosing.” Chayii’s voice grew soft. “I knew he would have a difficult enough path to travel without adding that.”
“But why is he so…” Visyna wasn’t sure how to finish the question.
“He would never admit it, but his rejection in the birthing meadow hurt him deeply. In our culture, there is no higher honor than to be bonded to a Wolf Oak. It is said that until that day, no elf is ever truly complete. Konowa believed that on the day he bonded, everything would change for him. He would be the first elf marked by the Shadow Monarch to take a ryk faur and join the Long Watch.”
“And when he was rejected?” Visyna asked.
“He turned his back on us, on his people, and on himself. He joined the Imperial Army shortly thereafter. His father encouraged him.” The bitterness in Chayii’s voice was clear, but so was the regret.
“It’s not too late for him,” Visyna said, hoping her words were true. “It’s not too late for any of them. We restored the Red Star to my people and saved Elfkyna. We destroyed the Shadow Monarch’s forest on the islands. We will prevail here, too.”
Chayii’s head turned and she studied Visyna carefully. “Your land and your people were indeed saved, yet here you are.”
Visyna blushed, but did not look away. “Konowa is still in peril, and I will save him, too…if I can.”
Chayii said nothing, but reached out a hand and held Visyna’s in hers. Rallie looked up to the sky and pointed at the stars. “Best keep your eyes open then, because we are going to need every bit of help we can find.”
The wagon rolled through the grounds and approached a palace gate. Several sentries stood watching, but made no effort to stop them, simply tipping their shakos at the ladies as they passed. Visyna looked at Chayii and Rallie and considered the contents of the wagon, and realized the soldiers had made a very wise choice.
“Shouldn’t we tell someone?” Visyna asked, watching the lights of the palace disappear as they turned a corner.
“Best that we keep this quiet for now,” Rallie said. “Besides, we have my sreex. When we need to get a message to the Prince and the major, we’ll do so. In the meantime, the less attention we attract the better.”
“Head south, out of the city,” Chayii said. “Rising Dawn’s voice came from over there.”
“South leads us to the desert. Interesting,” Rallie said. She clicked her tongue against her cheek and the brindos broke into a trot.
Shouting erupted downstairs. Alwyn tried to make out what was being said, but it was too garbled. He reached for his musket and remembered he’d left it with Yimt. The shouting rose in volume, and one voice was louder than the others.
Yimt.
“I’ve got to go,” Alwyn said, scrambling to stand up.
Nafeesah grabbed his arm. “It is nothing. Stay. We have yet to explore the reason you came up here in the first place.”
Alwyn looked at her, his mouth dropping open. “I can’t, not now. Don’t you see, Kaman Rhal’s power is here. Somebody or something is wielding the white fire. I don’t even want to think about the idea of an army of the dead.” In fact, Alwyn had spent the last few weeks thinking of nothing but, as the shadows of his fallen comrades never left him.
“What do you think you can do? Why must men always rush about yelling at the top of their lungs threatening to do something?” Nafeesah asked.
The sound of breaking furniture came up through the floor, which briefly intrigued Alwyn, because all he could remember seeing were pillows.
“I really need to go,” Alwyn said, buttoning up his jacket. “I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is I need to find out, and I need to tell my sergeant.” He began to part the curtains, then turned and came back to kneel beside Nafeesah. He felt as if he needed to say something reassuring, though whether it was for her or himself he wasn’t certain. “Maybe, when all this is over, I’ll be able to come back here…and see you.” He leaned in to kiss her. Their lips touched and Alwyn forgot everything. For a blissful moment, there was no pain, no oath, no death.
“You’re smiling,” Nafeesah said, her lips still pressed to his.
“Thank you,” Alwyn said, not wanting the kiss to end.
Nafeesah pulled back and looked him in the eye. “You can thank me properly on your return.”
Alwyn’s smile faltered. “I’d like that, but I—”
She put a finger to his lips. “You will return, Alwyn Oath Taker, Elf of Iron. I know it.”
Alwyn held her gaze, then a thought struck him. He gently grabbed her hand and held it. “What do I tell the others, about this? Us? I mean, what was supposed to happen up here?”
Nafeesah shook her head, brushing her curls in Alwyn’s face. “You tell them you were so exceptional, I refused to take your money.”
More shouting shook the walls. “I really should get down there.”
She nodded. “Be safe.”
Alwyn let go of her hand and turned to leave. Nafeesah grabbed his arm and pulled him back. They shared one more kiss. Alwyn had begun to wonder if he really did need to rush downstairs when the sound of shattering glass came up from the stairwell. “I’ve got to go!” he said, turning and hobbling to the stairs. He took one last look back at Nafeesah and then went through the curtains and down the stairs.
At the bottom he found himself in the middle of a full-fledged brawl.
It seemed Yimt’s attempts to prevent a riot hadn’t succeeded. As Alwyn’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he realized it wasn’t Iron Elves against locals, but rather Iron Elves against a group of soldiers from the 12th Regiment. The locals were running for cover.
Yimt was pummeling a sergeant from the 12th while Hrem, Scolly, and Teeter were surrounded by at least seven soldiers. Inkermon had a broken bottle in one hand and a glass of wine in the other and was holding three more soldiers at bay. Zwitty was nowhere in sight.
“Duck!”
Alwyn crouched, unsure if the warning had been directed at him. The woosh of a bottle passing over his head suggested it had. He stood back up as two soldiers of the 12th charged toward him.
“There’s another one of the buggers.”
Alwyn reached for the first weapon he could find and came up with a pillow. He ripped the covering and tossed it into the air, scattering feathers everywhere. In the ensuing confusion, he ran through the white cloud and met the soldiers on the other side. His fist struck first. The nose of one soldier made a wet, crunching sound and he dropped straight to the floor. The second soldier hit Alwyn in the jaw, sending him reeling backward. Alwyn reached up and put his spectacles back in place, amazed they hadn’t broken. The soldier came on, his fist poised to punch again, when he stopped, sta
ring at Alwyn’s wooden leg.
“Aw, hell, I didn’t realize you was a cripple.”
Another wet, crunching sound came as the soldier’s teeth flew out of his mouth. Lightning exploded in Alwyn’s hand, but he only smiled and looked around for more.
Whistles and shouting sounded from outside, and there was a mad rush toward the rear of the pub. Hrem grabbed Alwyn up under one arm and carried him. There were more beaded curtains and then they were in an alley.
“Put me down, Hrem, I can barely breathe,” Alwyn said.
“What, oh, sorry,” Hrem said, setting him onto the ground.
“Everyone accounted for?” Yimt said, rearranging his shako on his head. He was puffing and his face was red, but for all of that he was smiling. “Where’s Zwitty?”
“Right here,” Zwitty said, emerging from the back door of the pub. He was carrying two muskets, one of which he threw to Alwyn. “Don’t want to lose that.”
Alwyn caught it and nodded his thanks. The others were catching their breath and buttoning up their jackets. Teeter had a nasty gash on his forehead and both of Hrem’s hands were bloodied, but otherwise they looked as if they’d fared well. Inkermon was still clutching his now-empty wine glass.
“What was that all about?” Alwyn asked as Yimt started to lead them down the alley. Without a word the soldiers spread out, their muskets ready in their hands.
“That,” Yimt said, “was about regimental pride. Those cheeky buggers thought they’d make a few disparaging remarks about the Prince and the major, so we had to tune them up proper. A rather energetic discussion ensued, which I think you caught the tail end of.”
“But we’ve complained about them ourselves,” Alwyn said.
“Aye, we have, and that’s our right. They’re our colonel and second-in-command and we have the right, nay, the duty to complain about ’em. Them other duffers don’t. Just the way it works.”
Alwyn tried to get his head around that. “Even so, now none of you get to go upstairs”