Ashes of a Black Frost

by Chris Evans

  Konowa stomped his boot on the deck. What was Rallie doing? He opened his mouth to speak, but was stymied when the Prince turned his back to follow Rallie’s gaze.

  “Is that wings?” the Prince asked.

  “Not just any wings,” Rallie said, her gruff voice rising an octave in obvious delight. “I’d know that drunken collection of feathers anywhere.”

  True to his name, Wobbly the messenger pelican wobbled into view out over the harbor. His flying prowess, or complete lack of, was obvious. He bobbed and weaved like the drunken bird he was, using up far more sky than any other bird. Konowa figured he flew probably twice as far as he had to on account of all the weaving.

  “Wobbly!” Rallie cried. Everyone turned to follow the pelican’s flight.

  “It’s wounded,” Pimmer said, stepping out on deck.

  “No, just drunk as usual,” Rallie said, walking to the edge of the ship’s railing. Wobbly made a few less than smooth course corrections and began to home in on the ship.

  Konowa glared at the Prince one more time then turned to follow the final approach of the pelican. At seventy-five yards out he leveled his wings and started to glide. He slipped a little to the right, dipped his left wing, and steadied himself on the wind.

  “He’s coming in awfully fast, isn’t he?”

  At twenty yards he flared his wings and stuck out his webbed feet. Konowa tried to follow his path to see what he was aiming for, but the only thing obvious was the large sail canvas.

  Thump!

  Wobbly hit the main sail and began a panicked flapping of wings as he tried and failed to gain any purchase. Giving up, or growing exhausted, he slid down the sail until he hit the main spar, bounced off it, did a complete somersault in the air losing several feathers in the process, and landed flat on his back on the deck, his wings outstretched and his webbed feet paddling the air.

  “You ever think of using an owl instead?” Konowa asked.

  “Can’t trust them,” Rallie said, walking forward to pick up the pelican and cradle it in her arms. “Too smart for their own good. Now Wobbly here is a bird you can trust. A drunk, but a trustworthy one.”

  Wobbly’s bill opened wide letting forth a belch Konowa could smell from five yards away. A regurgitated vial popped out of his gullet which Rallie deftly grabbed. She then set the pelican back down on the deck. “Could someone please fetch him a bowl of grog, thank you.”

  Konowa was growing increasingly frustrated that his showdown with the Prince was being delayed. He started to open his mouth again, but stopped when he saw the look on Rallie’s face as she opened the vial and read the small scroll that had been rolled up inside.

  “Rallie, what does it say?” Visyna asked.

  Rallie turned to look at the Prince. She pulled back the hood of her cloak. Tears glistened in her eyes. “It is with deepest regrets that I must inform you that Her Majesty, the Queen of Calahr, is dead.”

  Konowa willed himself to remain calm. The death of the Queen was tragic. He’d met the old girl once and been impressed with the sharp intelligence peering out from a fat, soft face. Would the Prince blubber and go hide in his cabin? Perhaps he’d put on a brave front, or worse, express happiness that he was finally King. After his inconsolable pout brought on by the destruction of the Lost Library of Kaman Rahl, would this be the final straw to break his royal back, or maybe, just maybe, turn him into a man.

  Sympathy tempered Konowa’s anger while he waited. The Prince had lost his father years before, and now his mother. As strange as his parents were, Konowa found comfort in knowing both were still alive. He didn’t want to think about the hole they would leave when they were gone.

  A muffled sob made Konowa turn. Pimmer stood with his mouth open, his eyes wide with shock. Visyna went over to him and helped him to sit down on a nearby crate. The man was absolutely undone. Konowa’s respect for him lessened a little, and he felt bad about that, but what kind of diplomat went to pieces like that?

  “Pimmer, I am so sorry,” the Prince said softly, with far more caring than Konowa could muster. And why was he apologizing to him?

  A cluster of soldiers and sailors had formed around them. When they saw Konowa looking at them they started to leave, but he motioned for them to stay.

  “Does it say how she died?” the Prince asked, his voice calm, and giving nothing away.

  Rallie paused before answering. “She was murdered. An agent of the Shadow Monarch.” She wiped the tears from her eyes and put a cigar in her mouth, which instantly lit. She took two draws on the stogie before continuing, her next words mixed with a thick cloud of smoke. “The message goes on to request His Highness’s immediate return to Celwyn for the Queen’s funeral and for his coronation as the king of the Calahrian Empire.”

  At this she paused, and Konowa assumed it was emotion. When she resumed, he realized it was more likely shock.

  “However, due to the current unrest sweeping the Empire and the encroachment by creatures of the Shadow Monarch into Calahr itself it is advised that His Highness does not attempt to return at this time. His safety, and that of the royal court and the very citizenry itself, can no longer be guaranteed.”

  Konowa couldn’t believe his ears. By the gasp of surprise by those around, neither could anyone else.

  Rallie continued. “Dark creatures now run rampant in the countryside. Citizens from small villages and farms have fled and are now harboring in the larger cities. The risk of plague has now been added to our woes.”

  The Prince waved her to silence. “It is as we feared, and why so many of you have counseled for sailing directly to the Hyntaland and the Shadow Monarch’s mountain. In light of this news, I concur. We must—”

  “No!” Pimmer shouted, jumping to his feet and crossing the deck to stand in front of the Prince. “You must return. You must take up the crown.”

  If events turned any faster Konowa was going to have sit down. “Viceroy,” he said, walking forward, “you know why we must go to Her mountain. I understand you’re upset, but—”

  “No, you don’t,” Pimmer said, never breaking his gaze at the Prince. “If there is no King, the Empire won’t simply crumble, it will explode in an orgy of rebellion and war. Do you have any idea how many different races and tribes are kept from each other’s throats by the presence of Imperial forces? Do you know why just a few thousand siggers in their green coats can pacify a nation of hundreds of thousands? It’s because of the symbol. The power of the throne. As long as it’s strong, it exerts enormous influence. But leave it vacant and chaos will reign.”

  “Pimmer,” the Prince said, reaching out and grabbing him by the arm. “I know you’re hurting. I am, too, but if this is about—”

  Pimmer yanked his arm away. “This is not about that! This hasn’t been about that in a very long time. I never wanted the throne. We agreed on this.”

  Konowa had been to the theater where the twists and turns hadn’t been this convoluted. Was Pimmer admitting to being the real heir? It struck him how much the Queen and Pimmer looked alike. There was that same twinkle of smarts carefully hidden by a heavy exterior . . .

  Son of a witch.

  “Viceroy, perhaps we can continue this conversation in private,” Rallie said.

  Of course Rallie would know, Konowa realized. She had been Her Majesty’s Scribe for decades.

  “There is no private anymore,” Pimmer said, looking around him. “The fate of our very existence balances on this fulcrum in time.”

  “Told you,” Yimt said from somewhere in the crowd. “The full crumb.”

  Pimmer rounded on Prince Tykkin. “This is about your destiny, your duty. If you do not take the throne, it won’t simply be the Empire that falls, but all living things in it. Is that the legacy you want?”

  “And if we do not destroy the Shadow Monarch what then?” Konowa asked, unable to contain himself. “You told me yourself it was the right thing to do,” he said, knowing he was betraying the man’s trust and not caring.r />
  “It was, but now it isn’t.”

  The Prince raised his hand for silence. Konowa bit back his next retort and waited.

  “Events continue to move faster than we anticipate. We have suffered the most unfortunate luck to lose the wrong monarch. Therefore, I have no choice but to set sail for Celwyn and to assume the crown.” He turned and stared at Konowa, forcing him to remain silent. It was as if the man had suddenly grown. He seemed bigger, stronger.

  “We’ve had our differences, you and I. I doubt there’s any other officer in this army or any other who exhibits such constant and repeated insubordination. Your attitude toward authority is deplorable.”

  If there was a compliment in the offing the Prince was taking a long road to get there. Konowa opened his mouth to speak, but he felt three pairs of eyes on him and shut it again. He chose to believe he did it through his own willpower, and not the combined force of the three women a few feet away.

  “Furthermore, you are reckless and have a short temper. It’s quite astonishing you’ve only been court-martialed once.”

  Konowa felt the first flicker of frost fire dance in his clenched fists, but with a restraint that was causing the blood to pound in his ears he remained silent.

  “I could go on, but time is short, and I think I’ve made my point,” the Prince said. He pulled down on the hem of his coat and jutted out his chin. “It is therefore my great privilege and honor to hereby hand over command of the Iron Elves to you. Congratulations, Colonel Swift Dragon.”

  Murmurs of pleasure broke out all over the deck. A nearby cannonade fired by another ship seemed perfectly timed to echo in martial salute. A few even shouted “Long live the King” threatening to turn a solemn moment into something else. The Prince held up his hands and things quieted down.

  The Prince turned to take in the growing crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are witness to a truly rare occasion. Colonel Swift Dragon has been rendered all but speechless.”

  Konowa found his voice. “I thank you for this honor, Your Highness, but it has little meaning if we are still going to Celwyn and not the Hyntaland.”

  “Glad to see your rise in rank hasn’t changed you,” the Prince said, a slight mocking tone in his voice. “Of course, you are right. If you were accompanying me to Celwyn.”

  Now Konowa dared hope. “I’m not?”

  The Prince smiled. “My duty is clear, as Viceroy Alstonfar pointed out. I must return to the capital and assume the throne. The Empire must be defended. If Calahr falls, all falls. Your duty, and that of the Iron Elves, is equally clear. The Shadow Monarch must be destroyed. I place this vessel under your command. Make all haste to your homeland and use whatever means necessary to dethrone the Shadow Monarch.”

  Konowa stood to full attention and saluted. “Yes, sir!”

  The Prince looked at him, a bemused expression on his face. And then he did the most startling thing. He held out his hand.

  Konowa looked down at it. “Sir? The oath, the frost fire.”

  “King’s prerogative.”

  Konowa smiled and grabbed the man’s hand. Frost fire crackled between their palms. The Prince winced, but squeezed tighter. He leaned forward and whispered in Konowa’s ear. “If we should never meet again, I still think you’re a scoundrel and a disgrace . . . and I’m honored to have served with you. Thank you.”

  “We will meet again,” Konowa said, squeezing just a bit harder. “And you’re arrogant and vain and it will be my great privilege to one day greet you as His Majesty, the King.”

  They stepped back and released their grip. This time the surrounding soldiers and sailors did cheer.

  “Very well, it is time we parted ways. I leave you to your task, may fortune favor you.”

  “And you, sir,” Konowa said, saluting again.

  The Prince returned his salute. He turned and addressed Viceroy Alstonfar.

  “Unfortunately, it would appear the Hasshugeb Expanse is no longer part of the Calahrian Empire, which means your viceroyship is at an end.”

  “That is a correct interpretation of the political situation,” Pimmer said. He stood calmly, one hand resting on the pommel of his saber, the other on the butt of a pistol stuck into his belt. Konowa smiled. In the short time he’d known him, Pimmer had gone from bureaucrat to warrior. Give the man a few months in the field with the right instruction and he’d be an excellent leader.

  “As king, I will be choosing my advisors. I would like my first chosen counsel to be you.”

  Pimmer nodded his head. “That is a wonderful offer, and some day I look forward to accepting it, but with the king’s permission, I would like to enlist in the Calahrian Army.”

  The ship grew silent. The Prince leaned forward a little. “Pimmer, everyone knows of your bravery. You impressed a lot of people, myself included. You have nothing to prove. Come back with me, help me in Celwyn.”

  “I will, Your Majesty, in time. Right now, however, the most pressing need lies to the north, and with your permission, I will accompany the Iron Elves.”

  “Not as viceroy you can’t,” Konowa said, interjecting himself into the conversation. “I’m sorry, but we only have room for soldiers.” He looked at the Prince and winked.

  “Quite,” the Prince said. “Very well. Viceroy Pimrald Alstonfar, I hereby strip you of your title and standing in the Calahrian Diplomatic Corps and induct you into the Calahrian Army with the rank of Major, second-in-command of the Iron Elves regiment.”

  A week ago there would have been a riot. Now, there were cheers. Major Pimrald Alstonfar smiled and saluted, knocking his shako clean off his head.

  “He’s all yours, Colonel,” the Prince said. He then turned and motioned to Rallie. “As you were Her Majesty’s Scribe your services now belong to me,” the Prince said.

  Konowa expected some sort of comment from Rallie, but she simply bowed her head in acceptance.

  “Which is why,” the Prince continued, “I am ordering you to accompany Colonel Swift Dragon and the Iron Elves to the Hyntaland. I’ll be as eager as the rest of your readers to hear how events unfold, and their forthcoming victory in the battle against darkness.”

  This time the cheers were raucous. It never ceased to amaze Konowa how fatalistic and cheery a soldier could be at the same time. Still, he felt it, too. They’d all suffered and lost so much because of Her. Revenge, even if it appeared suicidal, appealed to them.

  He risked a glance over at Visyna, hoping desperately not to see her frowning. Her smile put a grin on his face. Not giving a damn about decorum, he walked over to her and kissed her as sparks flew.

  He pulled back after a moment, his lips and tongue tingling. Soldiers started crowding around and she and Rallie and his mother disappeared from view.

  Konowa stood still for a moment, taking it all in. I have the Iron Elves back. The fact that they numbered just a handful and none were from the original regiment mattered not at all. As the soldiers clustered around him to offer their congratulations, Konowa smiled and shook as many hands as were offered. Young Corporal Feylan, the nautical lad; hulking, salt-of-the-earth Private Hrem Vulhber; rock-steady Color Sergeant Salia Aguom; the childlike but determined Private Scolfelton; and the irrepressible Regimental Sergeant Major Yimt Arkhorn. He looked into their eyes and was proud of what he saw. They were dirty, tired, hungry, and scared, but they were Iron Elves. These were his men, his brothers. A pain unassociated with the black acorn lingered in his heart as he thought of the others he’d lost. His smile faltered for a moment as he searched and failed to find the faces of so, so many.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Their numbers had been steadily whittled away. Months of hard living and even harder fighting had taken its toll on those that still remained. The scars, whether physical or somewhere deep inside, would probably never heal, not entirely. Their Empire was falling apart at the seams, and victory looked less and less likely the closer they got to Her mountain. But for all that, they had each other.


  Konowa grinned, and started to laugh. His soldiers laughed with him. From somewhere in the small crowd, a soldier’s voice rose up above the din, and his words were taken up by every Iron Elf present:

  We do not fear the flame, though it burns us,

  We do not fear the fire, though it consumes us,

  And we do not fear its light,

  Though it reveals the darkness of our souls,

  For therein lies our power.

  Æri Mekah!

  Visyna stood on the harbor side of the ship with her forearms resting on the railing. The wind in her hair felt good, as did being on the ship and knowing they were leaving this place. She waved as the Prince, escorted by a company of troops, walked across the pier to board the HMS Ormandy to take him back to Calahr. He never broke stride, but he did doff his shako in response.

  “Our future king,” Konowa said, walking up to stand beside her at the railing. She felt the sudden urge to slide closer and have him wrap his arms around her, but the frost fire made it too difficult.

  “A future king,” she said, turning to him. “I wish him well, but the time of his Empire is over. My country is free.”

  Konowa held up his hands. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Old habits.”

  “Speaking of old habits, can’t you get rid of that acorn? You did before in Elfkyna,” she said, watching his face carefully.

  He smiled, removed his shako and placed it between his thighs, and reached into jacket and pulled the leather thong up over his head. He then placed it inside his shako and set it on the deck of the ship. “Give me your hand,” he said, holding out his.

  She did, and immediately withdrew it when black frost arced between their fingertips. “I don’t understand, you removed the acorn.”

  His smile remained, but she saw the sadness in it now. He unbuttoned the top four buttons of his jacket and pulled back the lapels while pulling down on his undershirt. A black, acorn-sized stain marked the skin above his heart. “It’s in me. The only way I break this oath and Her hold is to destroy Her.” He placed the acorn back around his neck.