Ashes of a Black Frost

by Chris Evans

  “Water?”

  She reached out and took the water skin, smiling her thanks at the soldier holding it. Private Hrem Vulhber rubbed his wet hands on his caerna then sat down opposite her, careful to keep the cloth wrap tucked. He rested his back against the wall and eased his legs out in front of him at an angle away from her so that his boots almost touched the far wall. Like all the Iron Elves his kneecaps were now a deep bronze from their exposure to the sun. Visyna glanced at the back of her hand and saw the color wasn’t that different from her own.

  “Another few weeks and I’ll pass for an Elfkynan,” Hrem said as if reading her thoughts.

  Visyna’s cheeks grew hot and she hid her embarrassment by lifting the water skin up to her mouth and pouring a long drink. The water had a sharp tang to it from whatever wine had been in the water skin before, but for all of that it was the best drink she’d had in some time. She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, then leaned forward and gave the skin back to Hrem, careful not to touch his hand. He took it just as carefully and put a small cork stopper in the funnel.

  “I saw you try to talk to one of them, not smart,” he said. He didn’t sound angry, more concerned.

  “They were Konowa’s brothers. I just can’t believe they could turn so bad.”

  Hrem looked up and down the tunnel before responding. “War is like that. I’ve seen bad men become angels, and good ones devils. These elves were good. We all heard the stories about the Iron Elves. Their reputation in battle was legendary. Made them sound inhuman, er, inelfen I guess,” Hrem said.

  “Then how could they be so . . . so lost now?” Visyna asked, trying and failing to understand the rage she’d seen in the elf’s eyes.

  “Every man, and elf, has his limit. No telling where or when you’ll reach it, but you shoot and get shot at long enough, and parts of you just stop working. You see things you can’t unsee.” Hrem’s voice grew quiet as his words slowed. “You feel too much, or maybe, you stop feeling altogether. You do things you never thought you’d ever do, or even could do. Every soldier is different, but in the end, you might win the battles, but you’ll never lose the memories of them. It’s the kind of thing that can eat you up inside until good and bad are just words with no meaning.”

  “Are you saying there’s no hope for them?” Visyna asked.

  Hrem shrugged his huge shoulders, the leather cross-belts over his jacket scraping against the rock as he did so. “Maybe, but I doubt it. If they were going to change, the time was back in the library when Kritton was pointing his musket at Sergeant Arkhorn. When they didn’t stop Kritton, they sealed their fate.”

  The rock behind Visyna’s back vibrated as Scolly let out a shuddering snore a few feet away. Yimt’s squad were arrayed around her like rag dolls dropped from a great height and left in whatever position they fell. Teeter, the former sailor, had fallen asleep with his chin resting on his chest and his unlit pipe dangling from his mouth. Beside him, the religious farmer, Inkermon, slumped forward with his head between his knees, his hands palm up on the tunnel floor. Curled up in a ball directly across from them, Zwitty moaned and twitched as if caught in the throes of a nightmare. Visyna debated, then decided against coughing loudly to wake him up. He was less annoying when asleep.

  A few yards up the tunnel she could just make out the shapes of Chayii and Jir in the dim light. The bengar’s head still rested on the elf’s lap like a big dog. Visyna tried to reconcile that image with what she knew of the animal’s predatory nature and found it difficult. Jir, like everyone else, was a very contradictory creature.

  She tried to see past Chayii and Jir, but there wasn’t enough light. The elves were not in sight, but she knew they were close by.

  She decided to change the subject. “It feels like they’re marching us all the way to the Hyntaland,” Visyna said, leaning her head back against the wall and wiggling her toes in her sandals. The bottoms of her feet felt like she’d been walking on coals and her shinbones ached.

  “Or as far as the coast, at which point we might need to hold our breath,” Hrem said, his voice deadpan but his eyes twinkling.

  Visyna smiled up at the ceiling. “I suppose the ocean might pose a bit of challenge,” she said, although she knew she had to come up with a plan to free them long before then. That elf soldier’s eyes hadn’t shown a hint of mercy.

  “We’re still a fair ways away. I don’t think we’ve covered more than twenty-one miles so far.”

  Visyna brought her head forward and focused on Hrem. He wasn’t smiling. “You know this?”

  Hrem reached up a hand and tapped a finger against his temple. “No magic required, just the ability to keep count in my head.”

  “Any idea where we’re going? Are they heading us toward the coast?”

  Hrem removed his shako and began scratching his head. His black hair was wet and plastered against his skull. The more he scratched the more the hair stood up on end. When he was satisfied with his efforts he put his shako back on his head with a soft thunk. “Near as I can tell, we started heading north, but then there were some twists and turns. I doubt we’re going south because that takes us deep into the desert and further away from their homeland. Angling toward the coast makes more sense. I heard the major say they were stationed at Suhundam’s Hill, and I know that’s due west of the library. If I had to wager on it, other than my life, which is already in the pot,” he said, a small grin lighting up his face, “it feels like we’re heading west. Makes sense, too. They meet up with that dwarf Griz at their old fort, resupply, and make for the coast.”

  “Why not head back to Nazalla? There are all kinds of ships there.”

  Hrem waved away her idea. “True, but these elves are deserters now, just like that bastard Kritton, so Nazalla is the last place they’d want to go. Too many Calahrian forces there. Assuming the city didn’t rise up in rebellion . . .”

  Images of their recent escape from Nazalla flashed unbidden in Visyna’s mind. Private Renwar’s calling of the shades of the dead had led to many deaths.

  “You’re right, but no one but us knows they’re deserters, and it was Kritton that killed Sergeant Arkhorn. They could still redeem themselves,” Visyna said, knowing as soon as she said it that it was foolish. The elves had cast their lot with Kritton. There was no turning back for them.

  “I wish it was different,” Hrem said, “but they just went too far over the edge. I actually feel sorry for the poor bastards. They’re really just as cursed as we are. They may not be bound by this oath, but they’ve had to live with being born with a black ear tip and their banishment a lot longer.”

  Anger welled up in Visyna. He blames Konowa. “Major Swift Dragon acted in the best interests of all people when he killed that horrible Viceroy. Do you know the horrors that Viceroy committed against my people? It’s true Gwyn turned out to be even worse, but Kon—Major Swift Dragon wasn’t to know that. And he certainly couldn’t have known his reward for trying to rid the world of such evil would be the loss of his command and the banishment of his regiment out here.”

  Hrem held up his hands in peace. “I ain’t blaming the major, Miss Tekoy. He was right to kill the first Viceroy even if it did lead to all of this. I know he feels bad about it and wants to do right by these elves, but Kritton found them before he did. Now they think whatever treasure they scavenged out of the library will be enough to buy back their honor. The really sad thing about it is, they could have had their honor back for the price of a single musket ball put in the back of Kritton’s head. But they had their chance and didn’t take it. Like I said, I feel sorry for them, but because of them, Yimt is dead. If they find themselves on the end of a rope one day, I won’t shed a tear.”

  Visyna bowed her head toward Hrem. “My apologies, Hrem, I should have known better.”

  “We have faith in the major. He may be as stubborn as a two-headed mule and thrice as ornery, but deep down we know he’ll do right by us.” The conviction in Hrem’s voice surprised he
r.

  “But the oath, the frost fire . . .”

  Hrem looked up to the ceiling as he marshaled his thoughts. “I’ll admit, I sure didn’t expect that when I took the Queen’s coin, but I wasn’t a babe in the woods either. I saw past the fancy uniforms and marching bands when I joined. Soldiers die. I knew it right from the start. We all did,” he said, lowering his head to look around at the sleeping soldiers. “But the thing about soldiering is, we all know that it’ll always be the other guy that does the dying. That’s the trick. People are always talking about hope, but sometimes the best thing you can have is the ability to fool yourself. None of us saw what the oath would do, but if it wasn’t that it would have been something else. So you trick yourself into believing we’ll find a way to escape these elves, rejoin the regiment, get to the Shadow Monarch’s mountain, put an end to Her and break the oath.”

  It took a moment for the meaning of Hrem’s words to sink in. When they did Visyna was aghast. He really believes they’re all doomed.

  “There really is hope, Hrem. Don’t give up.”

  The big soldier said nothing, but looked down at his hands. Flickers of black frost danced in his palms, then went out. “Like I said, Miss Tekoy, sometimes the best thing you can do is fool yourself. If it works, then maybe it was hope all along and you just didn’t realize it. Like when I look in a mirror and say ‘Hey, I’m a good-lookin’ fellow who won’t scare children in the street because they think I’m a giant likely to eat them’ or something like that.”

  “I think you’re very gallant, and very handsome,” Visyna said.

  Hrem lifted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Best we keep that between us. I won’t tell the wife and you don’t tell the major.”

  Visyna repressed a grin. “And a scoundrel, too.”

  “That you can tell folk.”

  “Gladly,” Visyna said. “We’ll be out of these tunnels eventually.”

  Hrem looked around them then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “At which point we’re going to have do something about these elves. Is Miss Red Owl going to have a problem with that? They are her people after all.”

  Visyna glanced over again toward Chayii and Jir. “I think our only problem with her will be staying out of her way when the time comes.”

  “Good. Now we just need to figure out how we’re going to overpower eighty some elves,” Hrem said.

  Visyna looked down at her hands and delicately weaved the air in front of her. Thin skeins of magic began to glow between her fingers. She looked back up at Hrem and saw his eyes gleaming with reflected light. “I have an idea . . .”

  Konowa didn’t wake up as much as the bruising that covered his entire body dragged him back to a state of consciousness. Pain. Endless pain. “Ow,” he said.

  “Back among the living are we?” Rallie asked, her usually gruff voice a full octave more . . . joyful.

  Konowa pried open his eyes a crack. It was still dark, still snowing, although not as heavily, and he appeared to be lying flat on his back under a makeshift tarpaulin in the back of Rallie’s wagon. “Ask me again in a year,” he said. He noted the wagon was definitely the worse for wear, but then who wasn’t? Splintered planks of wood making up the wagon bed were bound together with twine. He tried to move and realized he was completely immobilized, swaddled like a newborn babe inside what must have been a dozen Hasshugeb robes and something that smelled like hot manure.

  “It was the Viceroy’s idea,” Rallie said, reaching down and removing the top layer of his cocoon.

  “Is that . . .” Konowa started to ask before he was overcome by gagging.

  Rallie held up the offending garment. “Camel hide, recently skinned. Apparently it’s an old tribal remedy for those who have been injured. They wrap them up tighter than a tick in wet wool in one of these things and before you know it the afflicted are on their feet and running.”

  “No doubt to get away from the stench,” Konowa said, his eyes watering as he gasped for breath. Despite cries of pain from every joint and muscle, he managed to free his arms and push himself up to a sitting position by leaning against what was left of the front board of the wagon bed. It looked the way Konowa felt, frayed and battered.

  “And lo, he rises,” Rallie said, bundling up the camel hide, then using it as a cushion as she sat down beside him. She popped a cigar into her mouth and drew in a breath. The end of the cigar lit of its own accord.

  Konowa stared for a moment then shook his head and wished he hadn’t. “Ow.”

  “Ow, indeed,” Rallie said, reaching a hand into her black cloak and pulling out a small silver flask. “You are lucky to be alive, let alone in one piece and without any broken bones. Here, drink this. It’ll ease the pain.”

  He held out his hand, noting that it was shaking. She removed the stopper and handed him the flask. He brought the flask to his lips and tipped it up. The liquid went down his throat like a river of lava. Heat radiated throughout his body, soothing every ache and pain. A smile played on his lips and he closed his eyes, sinking down into the robes.

  “What is this stuff?” he asked, taking another sip. The flask was pulled from his hand and he opened his eyes to see Rallie tucking it back into her cloak.

  “For the sake of argument let’s call it a very powerful medicinal potion and one not to be ingested in large amounts.”

  “Magic?” Konowa asked.

  Rallie chuckled. “Absolutely not. Mostly Sala Brandy, a few sprigs of this and that, and the oil from a particular mushroom with . . . special qualities.”

  “I’d like to order a barrel,” Konowa said, marveling at how well he suddenly felt. Not healed exactly, but better, as if all the sharp points of pain had been smoothed down and coated in something soft and fluffy.

  “A little is good, a lot is deadly,” Rallie said, clucking her tongue. “Moderation, Major, everything in moderation.”

  Konowa sighed. “I’m aware of the concept, just never really been able to put it into practice.” He noticed a large bundle wrapped in more Hasshugeb robes down by his feet. “What’s in there?”

  Rallie didn’t look. “That, is pieces from the two dragon sarka har.”

  Konowa sat up a little straighter and slid toward the opposite side of the wagon. “I’ve been lying here with those abominations? What if they come back to life?”

  “They’re perfectly safe. Oh, what was the word he used . . .” Rallie said to herself, taking the cigar from her mouth and studying the end. “Ah. Inert. Not liable to reanimate or explode unless acted upon by a spark generated by a metallic object.”

  Konowa had no need to ask who. “Did the Viceroy say why he wanted them? Not souvenirs, I hope.”

  Rallie placed her cigar back in her mouth before responding. “He just said they might come in handy later. I didn’t press him on it, but believe me, my curiosity is definitely piqued.”

  “In my case it’s a sense of dread,” Konowa said, suddenly feeling very ill at ease. Even dead and in pieces, the sarka har were finding ways to torment him.

  “To change the subject,” Rallie said, her voice adopting a casual smoothness that Konowa immediately found suspicious, “I had meant to ask you before we were so rudely interrupted by those flying twigs, but when you were napping on the wagon you were mumbling to yourself. Dreaming perhaps? The scribe in me is forever curious . . . for my readers back home of course.”

  Konowa pushed himself back up to a sitting position, wincing as he did so. He took a moment to catch his breath. “I completely forgot about it. Damn, I can barely remember it now . . .” he struggled to recall it, knowing it had been important. Rallie stayed silent though the cigar in her mouth glowed bright orange with a series of quick puffs.

  “I remember . . . an ax, and Yimt was there. We were in the birthing meadow. He kept telling me to use the ax, but when I got to the Shadow Monarch and Her Wolf Oak, it wasn’t Her.” Konowa turned, and ignoring the pain, faced Rallie. “It was me. Yimt was telling me to kill me . . . I th
ink.”

  Rallie moved the cigar to the other side of her mouth before speaking. “Interesting . . . but that doesn’t sound quite right. Are you sure that’s what he meant?”

  Konowa shook his head, slowly and carefully. “I’m not even sure I’m remembering it right. We talked about mining for a bit, too, though that was because of the ax. Turns out the reason dwarves use axes in the first place is for cutting down trees for their mines. I didn’t know that.”

  Rallie smiled. “I did, and it appears you did, too.”

  “But that’s just it,” Konowa said, “I really didn’t know that. Yimt told me something I’d never heard before. How is that possible? Does that mean he was really in my dream? If that was really him, then what was he trying to say?”

  Rallie sat up a little straighter and looked out past the tarpaulin to the sky before answering. “A dream is a tricky thing, like trying to catch the wind. You know it’s there, you feel it, but the best you can really do is build a sail and let it help you get where you’re going.”

  Konowa thought about that. “I really am not cut out for this. Riddles and puzzles give me a headache.” He fished around inside his jacket and found a pocket with a couple of arr beans. He pulled them out and blowing some lint off them held out his hand to Rallie. It wasn’t shaking now, he was happy to see.

  She reached over and plucked one of the beans from his hand and threw it into her mouth while still keeping her cigar in place. The tip of the cigar began to glow bright blue. Konowa popped the remaining bean in his mouth and his lips puckered at the acidic jolt stinging his tongue. His eyes watered and his head cleared.

  “They’ve got some kick,” Konowa said, rolling the bean around in his mouth and enjoying the shock to his system. He still felt some pain in his right shoulder, but it was more like a distant memory, or at least destined to become one.

  “You should try them with liquor sometime,” Rallie said. “You’ll think you can fly.”