by Chris Evans
Konowa realized he’d been staring at the hill without realizing it. Now he looked at it and began to realize the challenge that lay ahead. Suhundam’s Hill looked like a mountain that had been shorn off a much taller mountain and then dropped smack in the middle of the desert. Rock slivers thrust up from the desert floor in sharp lines of gray, black, and white to form a pointed pyramid towering several hundred feet above the ground.
“Steep? It’s a bloody mountaintop without the rest of the mountain,” Konowa said. “Why couldn’t the stupid bugger go and get himself killed heroically on a nice piece of flat sand and not a place where a mountain goat would think twice about climbing?”
“They don’t actually have mountain goats in this part of the world,” Pimmer said helpfully. Konowa turned to glare at the Viceroy, who kept any other observations to himself.
Konowa paled at the thought of climbing up there, not the least of which was the knowledge that the higher he went the farther he had to fall back down. Still, there was no other choice, and at least this plan gave them an advantage. Most of the men were probably uneasy with the idea of his handing over the regiment to an until then unknown junior officer from another regiment while he took a small group on what could be a suicide mission.
Konowa would never say it in front of them, but he wanted to reach the fort before the regiment, especially before Private Renwar and his legion of the dead.
If the original Iron Elves were up there, Konowa hoped he could deal with whatever issues might arise and keep tempers cool.
If he was with the regiment and Renwar, there was no telling what could happen.
Rallie had mentioned Renwar’s calling of the shades when they had departed Nazalla and the slaughter that had ensued, and that was before he had become their de facto leader. Now, the scared wisp of a boy commanded a power of incredible violence, or at least appeared to. Konowa thought it equally possible the Shadow Monarch had more control than Renwar thought.
When Konowa was completely honest with himself he wondered how much that was the case with him as well.
“The men are ready,” Pimmer said, his voice a theatrical whisper that sounded louder than if he’d just spoken normally.
Konowa put on a brave face and turned to see who the RSM had chosen. Deep down Konowa wanted that crusty old dwarf and his ragtag group of misfits, but they were gone, perhaps forever. Konowa inspected the assembled troops.
“An excellent cross-section of men if I do say so myself,” Pimmer said. “Every one of them up to the task ahead.”
This was too much for Konowa. He turned to stare at the Viceroy. “You know these men?”
Pimmer nodded solemnly. “I made it a point to learn the names of all the soldiers in the regiment. The variation in ethnic backgrounds is remarkable.”
Konowa couldn’t tell if this was the man’s attempt at humor or sarcasm. “You know their names? All of them?”
“Certainly. It’s one of the reasons I joined the diplomatic corps. Memory like a jar of honey,” he said, tapping a finger against his temple. “Everything sticks.”
Even though he was certain the Viceroy meant nothing by it, something about his smile irritated Konowa.
“Fair enough,” Konowa said, taking a few steps in the snow and letting the sound of his boots crunching on the metallic flakes soothe his nerves. He marched in a small circle and came back to where he’d stood before, a smile now fixed to his face. “All right, here’s the drill. We’ll double time it across the open ground until we get around to the far end of the hill. There’s a secret path there that will lead us straight up the backside of the rocks and into the fort.”
Instead of waiting for questions he simply turned and started trotting. He could have walked, but all the time standing around had allowed the cold to seep into his bones and he was freezing. He quickly realized, however, that moving across snow laden with metal ore was like trying to push through icy cold, liquid pain. Cursing under his breath, he slogged his way forward, swinging his legs from the hip as he pushed through the fresh snow. The sound of heaving breathing sounded in his ears and a moment later Pimmer was trudging beside him.
“Follow me, Major, I’m built for this kind of thing,” he said as he moved past. Not to be outdone, Konowa tried to stay in step but was quickly left behind as Pimmer surged ahead. The soldiers quietly stepped out from behind Konowa and followed the much wider path left by the Viceroy. Leaving his wounded pride in a snowdrift, Konowa followed suit as the last soldier passed him by.
“I never knew it snowed in the desert,” the soldier said, slowing to keep pace with Konowa. He was short and stocky and looked like a butcher’s apprentice with his red cheeks and double chin. He’d wrapped himself in two robes, one red and one beige which made it look as if his stomach had been slashed open.
Konowa snorted. “It doesn’t. This is just for our benefit, Private . . .”
“Meswiz, sir. I was just thinking it’s a shame Miss Tekoy isn’t around to work some of her weather magic is all.”
Konowa said nothing. After a few more steps, Meswiz got the hint and carried on ahead of him. Konowa let him go, then moved over onto the well-trodden path set by Pimmer and found the going much easier. His feet, which had been frozen, now felt like they were on fire. He was certain an evil mix of sand and metalized snowflakes had fallen down his boots and were currently grinding the soles of his feet to pulp. He kept his head down as the wind blew more of the gritty mix around them. Konowa wondered what it must feel like to be wearing a caerna in weather like this, but after the initial shock of being issued the cloth wrap back in Elfkyna, the regiment had taken to it as a source of pride. It was one more thing that set them apart from the rest of the army, and that was something to be proud of.
Konowa was still thinking about that when he walked straight into the back of Meswiz. “Sorry,” he muttered, reaching up to adjust his shako as he looked up to see where they were.
A black mass loomed before them. He craned his head skyward. The swirling snow only added to the illusion that he was looking up at a mountain, and the effect was not welcome.
Konowa blew on his hands to get some warmth back into them. The wind rattled about the foot of the hills, chaffing at the rocks in a grating whine. “Load muskets and fix bayonets,” he said, grounding his own musket and loading a ball and charge. For a moment, there was only the well-drilled movements of men loading their weapons, and Konowa felt at one with them, and more important, at peace. The scrape of ramrods down barrels drifted to his ears like music. He smiled as his shoulder twinged with the effort of jamming the ball home. He kept at it until he heard the satisfying thud of it setting against the charge at the bottom of the barrel. Drawing the ramrod out, he nodded to himself as he hefted his musket. This he understood. This was why he lived.
“I think it best that I lead,” Pimmer said, his voice cutting through the wind. Konowa locked his bayonet into place with a solid click and felt more than heard ten bayonets lock into place at the same time. This wasn’t a parade ground, no sergeants were watching, yet the men had timed their movements to the second with his. Konowa risked a look and saw ten brothers before him.
“Your keenness is impressive, Viceroy, but there might be more than booby traps ahead. For all we know, the place could be crawling with rakkes or something worse,” Konowa said, remembering the flying sarka har. “If we lose you, we lose the only person who can read that map of yours. I’ll lead, and you’ll follow me.”
“Major, we can’t afford to lose you either. I’d like to take the lead,” Private Feylan said. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but there was determination in it. “The Viceroy can call out any warnings to me as we approach them. Like you said, we don’t know what’s up there.”
“You only get corporal’s stripes if you’re alive to sew them on,” Konowa said, admiring the determination in Feylan’s voice. “We’re walking into the complete unknown. The first man up these steps is the one that’s going to m
eet that unknown head on.”
Feylan ran a finger around the collar of his jacket. “Someone’s got to be first.”
“So it seems,” Konowa said.
Even in the dark, the determination in Feylan’s face was apparent. He stood up a little straighter and just a hint of frost fire glittered on his bayonet. “The thing is, we’ll take this fort, then make for the coast and board a ship and then it’s off to the Hyntaland. When we get there, we put paid to the Shadow Monarch once and for all. With Her out of the way a fellow can think about his future. Mine’s out at sea on a ship. So the way I see it, the sooner we climb these steps and find out what’s up there, the sooner we are to being done. Sir.”
Emotion caught in Konowa’s throat and he turned his head. He sees a future after this. He sees hope. Konowa turned back and coughed before speaking. “Viceroys wanting to lead, lieutenants hiding in the ranks, and privates wanting command of a ship of the line. Why not? Very well. Private Feylan has the lead,” Konowa said, looking at the soldier with something close to fatherly concern, “but I want you to stay close and listen hard to Viceroy Alstonfar. This isn’t the wide-open sea. We won’t be able to cross the T going up this path. The only way we’ll able to fire in support will likely be over your dead body, so keep both eyes peeled and your ears perked.”
Feylan came to attention and saluted. “You can count on me, Major.”
Konowa nodded as he looked at the other soldiers. “Same goes for all of you. Eyes wide, mouths shut, and ears on swivels. If all goes well we’ll find the place empty, but we might not.”
“It could be your elves are still there, too,” one of the other soldiers said.
It was a thought that Konowa was doing his best to banish from his mind. For reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of, he hoped his elves weren’t up there. Now that he’d come this far in search of them, he wasn’t ready to see them again.
“Probably have a nice fire going, maybe even a hunk of meat roasting on a spit. Wait, do elves eat meat?” a soldier asked. His voice squeaked, and Konowa doubted the lad was a day over eighteen.
Pimmer turned as if preparing a long sermon on the dietary habits of elves, but Konowa growled and the man simply adjusted his saber and kept his mouth shut.
He turned back to the map and his face brightened immediately. “Private Feylan, the first three hundred steps appear to be clear of any dangers, but the three hundred and first might put a cramp in your plans for a bridge of your own.”
“Can you tell what it is?” Feylan asked. Konowa admired the way his voice barely shook. Maybe the private was cut out for command after all.
Pimmer shook his head, bringing the map in closer until his nose was almost pressed against it. “Could be any number of nasty things, I’m afraid. Won’t know for sure until we get up there and have a look around. I would suggest you pay close attention to your count as we ascend.”
Konowa could tell by the look on Feylan’s face that his confidence was waning.
“Just count quietly to yourself and take it slow,” Konowa said to him, giving him a wink. “We’ll be doing the same just to be safe. When you get over two hundred stop where you are and we’ll check the map again. Just to be sure,” he said, looking over at Pimmer who was now turning the map upside down.
“What? Oh, yes, always wise to measure twice and cut once,” Pimmer said, then his mouth dropped open. “Goodness, that’s not offensive to you, is it, what with the inference about cutting wood?”
“Viceroy, when it comes to trees, I say cut twice and to hell with measuring.”
Pimmer started to smile, then stopped and decided to look down at his map again. After a moment he gave it a quarter turn. “Ah, that’s better. Yes, now it’s making sense.”
Konowa lowered his voice as he tilted his head to get Feylan to lean in. “On second thought, stop when you get to a hundred steps.”
The creature raged at the scudding clouds driven before an unceasing wind. The sky churned gray and black, echoing the chaotic thoughts in its mind. It leaned into the wind, heedless of the metallic snow scouring the desert floor like an army of teeth. The rakkes, their bloodlust whetted to a shrieking frenzy after ripping through the caravan, charged forward heedless of the deteriorating weather. With every mile covered more rakkes joined the pack until it appeared that a dark crescent was sweeping all the land bare.
Nothing survived the onslaught.
Not wildlife, not Hasshugeb tribes, and certainly not Her dark elves seeking to end the creature’s existence.
The creature, however, felt no triumph. Insanity swirled in an ever-expanding vortex in its mind. More and more of its being was fragmenting, scattered on winds that no mortal could feel. In its fury at being cheated out of destroying the Iron Elves at the caravan, the creature was tearing itself apart. Only its need for revenge kept it from losing itself entirely. That one crystalline thought fixed and shone in the center of its madness like a diamond.
Suhundam’s Hill.
The Iron Elves.
Major Swift Dragon.
The soldier usurper.
Endlessly it repeated the mantra.
As it did a new, cunning thought began to form. The shades of the dead still aided the Iron Elves. No matter how fierce the rakkes, they were no match for such enemies . . . alive.
Frost fire arced and spit across the creature’s body. The snow, stained with black ore, flew to it and began circling around it. A whirling storm of thick sheets of metal ice bands formed, each one rotating faster and faster. The earth cracked and buckled beneath its feet. Rakkes screamed and ran.
A high-pitched shriek rose above the siren wail of the spinning metal ice as the pull of circling bands began to tighten their orbits until they were cutting into what remained of its body.
Ribbons of flesh were gouged out of it like a plow cutting through loam. Each slice was a new exploration of suffering. Bone chipped and disintegrated while blood misted and crystallized, then fractured into ever smaller pieces.
It kept moving even as its body and mind were honed down to a razor thin existence. It drew more of the storm toward it until it vanished entirely in a maelstrom of gale force winds. For a moment, it was only energy, spinning itself tighter and tighter until the pressure became too much.
The wind died.
Everything went silent.
The spinning stopped.
The explosion released energy and agony. The bands of metal ice fractured, scything the air for hundreds of yards in every direction. Bits of the creature stained the shards.
Rakkes vaporized in a hail of ice and metal. Bodies flew apart, sliced and cleaved so minutely that it was impossible to tell what they had once been.
A remnant of the creature coalesced in the center of the blast. A cold, dark spinning core of black energy. It reached out with its mind, finding pieces of itself all around. It called to them, and shades of dead rakkes by the hundreds answered the call.
The surviving rakkes picked up their pace, their bloodlust unabated. The shades of the dead rakkes flowed between this plane and the next.
They were the creature’s revenge.
The creature would have smiled if it still knew how.
It had transformed itself. It had taken its pain and agony and multiplied it hundreds of times over.
Finally, after decades of servitude, it had an army to call its own.
Konowa rubbed his right shin and climbed back to his feet, waving for Private Feylan to continue. The soldier was moving quicker up the rocky path than Konowa expected. The footing was treacherous as every rise was slicked with ice, as Konowa’s shinbone could attest. Worse, no two were quite the same, so he couldn’t find a comfortable rhythm. Whoever had hacked the steps out of the rock had done so quickly and with little care or concern for craftsman-ship. The more Konowa thought about it the more he wondered about the likelihood of there being any booby traps at all. Considering the condition of the steps he doubted the workers would have had the time
or the skill to set anything more dangerous than the uneven steps themselves.
“That’s a hundred, Major,” Private Feylan whispered. He stood just a yard ahead of Konowa, one boot resting on the step above, his musket held at the ready. Snow swirled above their heads providing a pale, reflected light tinged with the blue of the returned Jewel of the Desert. It made everything feel even colder, which was quite a feat.
Konowa nodded, hiding his chagrin. He’d been so busy trying to navigate the winding path without breaking a bone he’d lost count. He turned and looked at the Viceroy, who had the map out and held at what appeared to be a new angle.
“Problem?” Konowa asked.
“Wrinkle is more like it. I can’t quite make out a letter here, and I suspect it’s rather important. No matter, we’re good until the three hundred and first step. Of that I’m almost positive.”
Konowa looked back up at Feylan, whose eyes grew considerably wider. Konowa offered him a tired smile. “You’re doing fine. Just slow it down a bit. We’ll beat the regiment to the fort by a good hour as long as we do it carefully. Now hold there for a second, I want to do a head count.”
Private Feylan nodded and turned back to face up the path. Slinging his musket over his shoulder, Konowa eased himself around using both hands on the rocks near him to steady himself. A thin sheet of ice covered the rock giving his hands little purchase. He pressed harder as a boot heel began to slip out from beneath him.
“Oh, hell,” he muttered, ramming the palms of his hands against the ice and willing his body to stay upright even as his other boot began to slip as well. He tried to dig in, but only resulted in slipping faster. For a moment he treaded air, madly trying to find some footing. An idea formed from desperation sprang to mind and frost fire flared out from his hands to cover the rock and the step beneath him. His boots thudded down into the rough ice crystals and didn’t move.
Konowa’s sigh of relief was cut short as the butt of his musket banged against a boulder.
He cringed, but the noise was dull and didn’t carry. He deliberately looked past Pimmer, who was staring at him with mouth agape and caught the eye of the soldier behind him. “Everyone still with us?” Konowa asked as nonchalantly as he could.