Ashes of a Black Frost

by Chris Evans

  “Ah, ha . . . ha,” Konowa said, memories of his recent flight passing before his eyes to lodge somewhere deep in his spinal column like vibrating harp strings. “I prefer to stay close to the ground. Better odds of surviving when I inevitably fall.”

  “You do have a knack for that,” she said.

  Thoughts of falling stirred up other concerns. Everything around him was calm, and he didn’t trust it, not after the night he’d had.

  Feeling more alert, Konowa brought his left hand to the middle of his chest. The black acorn was still there. Regardless of why the Shadow Monarch had made it possible for him to have this power, it was his to use in aid of the regiment.

  Okay, he said to himself, you’re an elf. Despite all evidence to the contrary you’re a creature of nature and at one with the natural order. He closed his eyes and pushed his senses outward, searching for a sign that Her forces were near. He was not going to be surprised by those damn sarka har again.

  Cold from the black acorn pushed into his chest like a bar of frozen steel, but with that pain came an awareness of the surrounding desert. The metallic snow vanished as his mind explored around rocks and over dunes. The path they were following suddenly appeared before him as if he were looking at it in broad daylight. He could see every twist and turn and every curving sand dune. He pushed harder, and now he felt the world around him. The dull cold of the rocks, the bone-weary exhaustion of the soldiers, the coursing power emanating from Private Renwar at the head of the column, and an ancient power sitting right beside—

  Something hit him in the ribs and he opened his eyes in surprise. He looked over at Rallie who was looking back at him with all the innocence she could muster with an eerie blue-flamed cigar clamped between her teeth.

  “My apologies, Major, I thought you were going to sleep on me. Now that you’re awake it’s best you stay awake.”

  Konowa rubbed the sore spot and managed a grimace for a smile. “That’s quite all right. You know, I was searching the immediate area and noticing something very interesting. If your elbow hadn’t grazed me when it did I think I was about to notice quite a bit more.”

  Rallie pulled the cigar from her mouth and let out a long, slow stream of smoke. Konowa watched it twist and turn within the confines of the space under the tarp as if it were a living thing. After what seemed an impossibly long time, the smoke found its way out and into the night sky. Konowa turned back to Rallie and found her staring directly at him. It wasn’t an unfriendly look, exactly.

  “So,” Konowa said, desperate to change the subject, “I can’t help but notice we’re not moving. Any reason why my orders are not being followed? Time is slipping away from us. We need to get to Suhundam’s Hill.” He didn’t bother to add because my elves are there, and I have to find them before we leave this desert waste and head for Her mountain. Rallie continued to stare at him for a moment longer then smiled and put the cigar back in her mouth. “We’re already here, Major.”

  “We are?” he said, throwing off the robes and getting to his knees before reaching up to push the tarp out of the way and standing up. The cold night air tousled his hair. He brushed a few strands from his eyes and peered into the darkness.

  A crumbling pile of rock covered in ragged sheets of snow appeared a half mile away. It looked less a hill and more like the remnants of a rockslide from a long-vanished mountain. There wasn’t a smooth line in the entire feature. Every inch of it jutted and fractured like a block of ice repeatedly thrown to the ground.

  “Major, really glad to see you up and about!”

  “What?” Konowa asked, trying to focus. He looked down to see a young soldier staring up at him, the lad’s dirt-smudged face smiling. “Ah, Private Feylan. It’ll take more than a damn flying tree to beat me.” Though not by much.

  “Hey, the major is all right!” Feylan shouted. RSM Aguom quickly ran up and shushed the private.

  “Keep your voice down. Do you want to bring another orchard of those bloody things after us?”

  Feylan nodded, but continued to smile. He stood up straight and saluted. Konowa returned it and turned to face Aguom. “What’s our situation?” he asked, walking toward the end of the wagon and staring down at the ground. The jump looked to be about three feet. He debated sitting down and then hopping off, but soldiers were beginning to cluster around. He was their officer, their leader in battle.

  Saying a silent prayer then wondering why he bothered, Konowa leaped. He hit the ground and felt every bone joint crack. He stifled a cry, and drew in a deep breath, using it to straighten up his spine. Still, it could have been worse, and his vision was clear. Whatever was in Rallie’s medicine really did the trick. He slapped his hand against his side and didn’t feel his saber. Before he could turn he heard a clunk on the wood behind him and scabbard and saber slid to a stop at the edge of the wagon. Konowa smiled and grabbed it, strapping it around his waist by its leather belt. That feels better. “I don’t suppose anyone found my musket?”

  “‘Fraid not, Major,” Aguom said, “but we do have a few spares . . .”

  Konowa paused as that sank in. “I suppose we do. If it’s still with us, I’d be honored to use Grostril’s.”

  There was a murmur of approval from the troops. Konowa figured they’d approve, but he also wanted to honor the soldier. No one should die because of a damn tree.

  “We’re in as good a shape as can be expected,” RSM Aguom said, waving a hand around to take in the soldiers standing near them. “This weather isn’t helping any though, and we’re pretty much out of everything except powder and musket balls, and they won’t last much longer at the rate we’re going. Major,” he said, stepping forward and lowering his voice, “if this regiment is going to remain a fighting force we need supplies. If there’s so much as a piece of moldy bread in that fort we really need to get it.”

  “We will, we will.” Konowa turned his attention back to Suhundam’s Hill. It looked to be three hundred fifty feet at its highest though at this distance he couldn’t be certain where the hill ended and the night sky began. He searched for the small fort he knew was up there, looking for a lantern or cookfire glow, but nothing but the metallic sheen of the fallen snow reflected back.

  “Stupid bugger,” Konowa said, cursing the late Captain Trilvin Suhundam. Recorded as a singular act of uncommon valor, Suhundam had led the spirited defense of a company of soldiers from the then King’s Grenadier Guards against more than five hundred Hasshugeb warriors some sixty-five years ago on that mess of rocks. Survivor accounts credited the officer with rallying the troops no less than twelve times when the natives appeared about to overrun them. On the thirteenth, however, Suhundam slipped and fell to his death, at which point the remaining troops conducted what was euphemistically known as a tactical reorientation vis-à-vis their direction of movement—they did the smart thing and took to their heels and ran.

  Konowa hoped their experience here would be significantly calmer, but somehow he doubted it.

  Konowa took a moment to adjust his uniform, aware that as second-in-command he had to look the part in addition to living it. He’d never gone in for the whole spit-and-polish routine that so many officers aspired to. He was more of a spit-and-get-on-with-it kind of officer. Still, his uniform really was looking more like a vagabond’s rags these days.

  “To hell with it,” he muttered, wrapping the Hasshugeb robe around himself and slinging Grostril’s musket over his shoulder. The cold was getting worse, even if the snow had tapered off for the moment.

  “If you’ll hold that pose for a moment I’d like to make a quick sketch,” Rallie said from the wagon bed.

  Konowa turned slightly and raised his chin, looking off into the distance in what he hoped was a martial pose. Rallie balanced her sketch pad on her knee and poised her quill above it.

  “A little less pompous, please. My readers like you; I’d hate for that to change.”

  Konowa let his shoulders slump. “Fine, it was hurting my neck to stand l
ike that anyway.”

  “This will only take a moment. Try not to squirm,” she said, her quill now flying across the page.

  Konowa felt goose bumps on his flesh and put it down to the wind. He surprised himself by realizing he felt good. Physically he was still more bruise than not, but emotionally he really did believe somehow, someway, they were going to make it. There was comfort in seeing Rallie with her quill. Even if she wouldn’t talk about it, he knew there was far more to it and to her. It was like having an extra cannon along. He would have still preferred to have canister shot for the three cannons they had pulled all the way from Nazalla, but Rallie’s quill and the questionable aid of the dead commanded by Private Renwar would have to do.

  “Done,” Rallie said, tucking her quill away into the folds of her cloak.

  “May I see it?”

  “No.”

  Konowa was momentarily perplexed. “Why not?”

  “I meant to say I’m done, for now. I will have more work to do on it later.”

  That sounded suspiciously mystical to Konowa, but as he was learning by trial and error, sometimes the best course of action was none at all.

  “Then I look forward to seeing it . . . eventually,” he said. He started to walk forward beside the remaining camels, but caught a whiff of himself and thought better of it. Stupid animals might think I’m one of them. He headed in the other direction. The soldiers were now milling around waiting for orders. Remembered images of Regimental Sergeant Major Lorian, and his successor, Sergeant Arkhorn, shouting and cajoling the troops into order caused a small pain somewhere deep he knew no amount of medicinal elixir would ever cure. He slapped the hilt of his saber with the palm of his hand and smiled as his flesh stung. This was no time to get misty about the past.

  The soldiers turned and looked to him for guidance. He set out into the desert a few yards away from the road and motioned for the troops to follow.

  Acting Regimental Sergeant Major, Color Sergeant Salia Aguom, and Viceroy Alstonfar stood in the lee of a rocky crag and out of the wind. The two of them were pouring over a map by the light of a small brass lantern. Konowa looked around for the Prince but saw no sign of him.

  Pimmer looked up and smiled. “Ah, Major, just the man I wanted to see. The tribal cure seems to have done the trick.”

  “Yes, remind me to thank you for that later,” Konowa said, still smelling of camel and finding it did not get better with age.

  The Viceroy took that as a compliment and not an implied threat and motioned for Konowa to come closer. Konowa looked at Aguom who shrugged as if to say he was just as puzzled. Konowa looked down at the map and saw why.

  “That’s not a map. It’s just numbers and lines of gibberish,” Konowa said, reaching out and gently lifting up a corner of the paper to see if the map was on the other side. No, just more scribbling in a language he couldn’t read.

  “Not gibberish, Major, it’s Birsooni,” Pimmer said, gently correcting him. “They were a tribe that lived here over a thousand years ago. Nomads wandering the desert wastes. It was known that they created a unique code for oasis, wadis, water cisterns, and other important features, but little more than fragments of their maps have ever been found. And I found a stack of them in the library!” Pimmer said, his voice rising with obvious joy. “Judging by the discoloration, the feel of the fibers, and the color of the ink—goat’s blood if I’m not mistaken—this one is the most recent by a good two hundred years. Not nearly as valuable as the others, I’m afraid, but in this inclement weather I thought it better to risk this specimen and preserve the others. Still, isn’t it marvelous! Here in my hands is proof that the Birsooni navigated by numeric code.”

  Marvelous wasn’t the first word that came to Konowa’s mind. “I certainly haven’t seen anything like it, Viceroy. Does it give you any details about Suhundam’s Hill? Any secret paths or tunnels we might use?”

  Pimmer smiled as he nodded his head. “I’m almost certain it does, but I can’t make sense of one single bit of the thing.” He winked at Konowa and lowered his voice as he continued. “Actually, calling the Birsooni nomadic is being rather charitable. Seems their maps weren’t quite as useful as they’d intended. The history of the other tribes of the Hasshugeb are filled with accounts of the Birsooni wandering hither and yon. The nastier accounts suggest they simply couldn’t find their way back home, which is the only reason they become nomadic in the first place. One day they set out on a raiding party against another tribe’s caravan and were never seen again. For all we know their descendants are still out there today somewhere, still trying to find their way back to their homeland. Quite poetic, really.”

  A metallic-tasting snowflake landed in Konowa’s open mouth, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to close it. How in blazes did the Calabrian Empire survive this long? Everyone in power must have been dropped on their heads at birth.

  “So no help for our immediate situation then?” Konowa finally asked, turning slightly to spit out the bitter-tasting snow.

  “Definitely not,” Pimmer said, his eyes shining. “I was just showing the sergeant here. It really is a remarkable find . . .” He trailed off as he finally seemed to notice Konowa’s expression. “Oh, but not to worry, this map should provide us with everything we’ll need to know,” he said, pulling a small, folded piece of paper from inside his swaddling robes. “It’s Birsooni, too, but the cartographer was more traditional in his approach, to a point.”

  Konowa reached out a hand and took the piece of paper without saying a word. He opened it and saw a finely detailed sketch of the fort in plan view. A wide, straight road sloped all the way down from the fort’s one gate on its northern face to the desert floor. It was by far the quickest and easiest way up to the fort, but going that way uninvited would be certain death. Anyone in the fort would have a clear shot the entire way up. What Konowa was looking for was an escape route, something small and hidden. The Grenadier Guards had found one all those years ago, so he knew it had to be there somewhere. He found it lightly traced on the southern exposure. It had far fewer twists and turns and headed straight for the rear of the fort, where it disappeared under the wall. A secret doorway in and out. Perfect.

  Less perfect, however, was that parts of the path appeared to have either been erased or never drawn in. There was more gibberish written in the margins, but at least this was something he could work with.

  “This should do nicely, thank you,” Konowa said, fighting the sudden desire to hit something, preferably rotund and smiling.

  “Think nothing of it,” Pimmer said, his smile suggesting he certainly didn’t. “I hope you weren’t thinking you’d have to walk up to the front gate and knock?”

  Not anymore I’m not, Konowa thought, rubbing the back of his sleeve against his mouth. “No, not at all. Well, now that we have this it’s time we were moving. Will the Prince be joining us?”

  Pimmer took one last longing look at the Birsooni map then rolled it up, careful to shield it from the wind and snow. “The Prince is indisposed at the moment, but conveys in his absence that you are to take whatever measures necessary to secure the fort.”

  A diplomat through and through, Konowa thought, grudgingly admiring the man’s ability to lie with absolute sincerity. So the Prince was still sulking? Konowa found he just didn’t care. He knew what had to be done, and Prince or no Prince, it would be done.

  “Very good,” Konowa said, spitting out the last of the bitter-tasting snow and nodding to Pimmer. “I’ll confer with the RSM here and we’ll get moving within the quarter hour. Perhaps you should check on the Prince and make sure he doesn’t do something fool—adventurish and wander off on his own.”

  “Not to worry, I left a soldier in charge of his camel this time,” Pimmer said. “I need to be here with you when we reach the fort.”

  Konowa had seen this before. Officers that spent their lives behind desks and conference tables get a rare taste of battle—aren’t torn in two by a cannonball—and sud
denly they feel alive. The fear and the excitement of being shot at and missed acts like a drug. Suddenly, they understand warfare in a way no one else does, and they are overcome with a fevered need to be in the thick of it. The inevitable outcome is always bloody, definitely for the soldiers who pay the price, and sometimes, happily, for the fool who caused their suffering. Konowa wasn’t about to let that tragedy play itself out here. And it wasn’t just for the sake of the troops. He genuinely liked Pimmer and realized he was the first Viceroy he’d met he didn’t want to kill. Mostly.

  “That won’t be possible, Viceroy,” Konowa said, thinking fast. “I’ll need you at the rear with the Prince. If the fort is no longer held by the elves there could now be a Hasshugeb tribe in there. I don’t speak the language, you do. I can’t risk having you out front getting shot before you get a chance to talk.”

  “I do make a large target, I’m afraid,” Pimmer said, looking between Konowa and the RSM. Neither one laughed. “But rest assured, Major, it isn’t vainglory that necessitates my being up front with you. It’s a bit more pedestrian this time. Not only am I the only one who can speak the language, I’m the only one who can read it, too. The writing on this map contains details of the path up to the fort not drawn here. The cartographer chose to keep some aspects of the route secret and so instead of drawing them chose to put them down in writing, ensuring only a native would be able to decipher it. Rather clever, actually. Much smarter than the other Birsooni’s attempt I dare say.”

  Konowa interrupted before Pimmer could pull the other map back out. “Can’t you just tell me what it says now?”

  Pimmer was already shaking his head. “You’d think that, but there was a real mind at work here. Certain details of the path are missing on purpose. The writing that accompanies the map fills in the blanks, but they aren’t simple instructions.

  “You see, these lines are riddles. And not just your run-of-the-mill children’s game either, but riddles referencing ancient tribal legends. Absolute genius. I mean, look at this part here,” he said, showing the map to Konowa and Aguom who dutifully looked. “What, for example, would you do when you come to a fork in the path and you read ‘The lamb with wolves’ teeth suckles from the camel on a moonless night?’”