A Darkness Forged in Fire Read online

  "And you?" Konowa asked, wondering where this was all leading. "You adhere to the old ways. This shelter, the cooking pot, the hides you wear, even the way you talk. If I didn't know better, I'd say you had a change of heart about steering me toward the Empire."

  Konowa said it in jest, and was completely unprepared for Jurwan's response.

  "Perhaps. If you had stayed with the tribe, we would not be in this land, and you would not be embarking on this quest for the Eastern Star."

  The two sat in sudden silence, both staring at the fire.

  "Father," Konowa finally said, "do you really believe it is true? A red shooting star falling in the east here? And now buried under some dung heap in Luuguth Jor, and the Viceroy come back to life?"

  Jurwan's answer shook Konowa to his bones. "The rakkes are real enough, and I have seen things that make me believe the rest is true as well. And though you have chosen not to tell me, you have dreamed of Her recently."

  "How did you know that?"

  For an answer, Jurwan looked up to the branches overhead and whispered something. A moment later a single willow leaf came fluttering down to land in his outstretched hand. As Konowa stared, the leaf stood perfectly upright in his father's palm, slowly turning. Jurwan studied the leaf for several seconds, then closed his eyes. There was a rustle of wind in the branches above their heads and suddenly dozens of leaves were falling, but many were from different trees. Konowa pushed apart the wall of willow branches to look outside. A strong wind was snapping banners and chasing dust clouds high into the air.

  "The rakke knew your name," Jurwan said.

  Konowa turned back to his father, now surrounded by a pile of leaves on the ground.

  "It doesn't anymore."

  Jurwan nodded. "She's reaching out far and wide, beckoning to those who would serve Her. A black, cold flame in the night, invisible to most, but not all."

  Konowa stirred the pot so hard he splashed some of the soup into the fire. "Serve the Shadow Monarch? I'd kill Her just like I killed Her servant."

  "Not quite the threat it was a year ago," Jurwan said, winking at his son, "but I have no doubt you would oppose the Shadow Monarch with every fiber of your being."

  Konowa was in no mood to be placated. How could his father not see the only course of action open to them? "The Iron Elves should be called back and then the entire Imperial Army should be sent against Her mountain. What will killing the Viceroy all over again achieve? We should go after Her."

  Jurwan shook his head. "She is strong now, much stronger than She has ever been. Her trees have dug deep into the mountain, feeding on a power they were never meant to taste. A direct assault would end in disaster. No, Luuguth Jor is where you must go, and quickly."

  "With the Prince in command?" Konowa asked. Thoughts of the man made him grip the knife harder, his knuckles whitening. "What does His Highness know about fighting?"

  "Consider that this is the Queen's son, the future King and ruler of the Empire," Jurwan said, reaching over and tapping Konowa on the hand so that his grip relaxed. "You have an opportunity to shape the monarch-in-waiting. Think what it would mean if you could convince him that the lands of the Hynta elves were best left to us."

  Konowa looked at his father with genuine surprise. "The past is gone, Father. The Hynta's only hope is in embracing the future. You know I think this idea of the Queen's, if it really is Her idea, to be a complete farce, but this Empire isn't going away, and with each passing year it grows stronger. The Long Watch will have precious little to watch over if they don't accept that."

  "The Long Watch have seen the rise and fall of more than one empire. Do not be so sure it won't bear witness to the demise of this one, too."

  "Then help me, Father, help me to destroy Her. Convince Ruwl to call back the Iron Elves before it's too late."

  Jurwan shook his head. "The more I think on this, the more I am happy that they are far away. She would try to turn them, too. No, better they stay where they are for now."

  "Then what should I do?" Konowa asked.

  Jurwan acted as if he had not heard him. "I received a message from your mother. The Long Watch are very worried."

  Konowa sighed. "The Long Watch are always worried; it's their nature. They fight for a past that is gone. I'm worried about the here and now."

  "It is the here and now that is becoming the past that has them worried," Jurwan said. "Many said we should burn everything and put an end to Her."

  Konowa leaned forward. "Burn it? I can't imagine the Elves of the Long Watch burning a forest, not even Her forest."

  "Probably not. Their compassion for all living things is a heavy burden. I fear before long we will reap a bitter harvest from this." He hesitated for a moment, then reached out his hand and gave Konowa a small pouch.

  "More spice? Unless you want me to kill rakkes with my cooking, I'll need more than this."

  The pouch felt heavy and cold. Konowa undid the leather thong and looked inside.

  There was only blackness. Without pausing, he reached down with a finger to see what trickery was going on. His finger touched something freezing and hard.

  "Wh—" was all he had time to say before a stabbing pain entered his finger like a thin stiletto of ice. He pulled it away and brought his finger to his lips. Immediately a bolt of lightning surged through his body, leaving him trembling and panting. He watched with open-mouthed amazement as Jurwan reached over and took the pouch from his other hand, tied up the thong, and set it down on the ground.

  "It's an acorn from Her ryk faur, the silver Wolf Oak She would not let die," Jurwan said, his face giving nothing away. "You have carried a great burden all these years, my son, bearing the mark of otherness with a strength and pride that has served our people well, though they choose not to see it. You did not bond with a Wolf Oak and join the ranks of the Long Watch, yet you, and those elves like you, have protected the Hynta and its forests at a great cost. The Iron Elves live again, and I think this time, they deserve more than the scorn of their people."

  "But this is—"

  Jurwan held up his hand. "Help, I believe, when you need it most. Until then, leave it be. Now," Jurwan said, smiling again, "stir the soup, my son. Adventures, however ill-advised, are better met on a full stomach…and you'll need your strength if I'm to have grandchildren any time soon."

  Konowa did as he was asked, but he was no longer hungry. He stared down at the leather pouch on the ground. The full import of what he was embarking on was only just starting to seep into his understanding, the chances of success slim to remote.

  "But real all the same," Jurwan said, taking the knife from his son's hand and stirring the soup himself. "Let us hope it is enough."

  FIFTEEN

  DOES YOUR HEART BEAT FAST TO TREAD THE PATH OF GLORY?

  No better time than now offers itself to smart young elves and NOW humans, too. (Dwarves need not apply!) Come, be a part of history as the Light Infantry of the Hynta, the Iron Elves, the most famous siggers to ever wear Her Majesty's colors, march again!

  Enjoy the Honor of being commanded by HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, PRINCE TYKKIN, whose distinguished ability and flawless character is so great that no language can do it justice.

  NB. Clothing and accoutrements are of the highest quality and all soldiers accepted into the rank will be provided the famous winged shako. Arrears paid to relieve soldiers of obligations to debtors including relatives, business associates, former regiments, and up to three wives.

  Konowa crumpled the leaflet in his hand and let it fall to the ground. The only path they were likely to tread in the coming days was one washed with blood. He looked up and started walking toward the parade square where the new regiment was being formed.

  Everything was moving too fast, and all in the wrong direction.

  Just a week ago, his biggest concern had been getting smothered by mosquitoes in the forest. Now he was enmeshed in a web of events he didn't begin to understand, but he knew he'd better if he and the
regiment were going to survive. Nothing that had happened to him so far gave him much hope, especially the notion that there was a shadowy hand guiding things as his father suggested. He instinctively patted his coat, where the pouch Jurwan had given him was tucked away. He was constantly reaching for it, a little worried that he should suddenly feel so attached to the blackness held within. Every so often he would feel a sensation as if the leather had been worn away, allowing the cold smoothness of the acorn's shell to rub against his skin, sending a sudden chill coursing through his body. Despite the heat, it was a feeling he could have done without. Each time it happened, he felt tempted to open it up and look inside, and each time he fought it. His life was growing increasingly more complicated by the day without adding to its difficulties by ignoring a wizard's warning. Perhaps, he mused, his newfound restraint boded well.

  "Get your hard head back to the wagons. The regiment isn't accepting any dwarves!"

  As usual, Konowa was dead wrong. He looked up to see a large group of soldiers milling about the parade square as a sergeant yelled at a dwarf soldier. Konowa recognized the dwarf as the one Jir had taken an interest in.

  "Trouble?" Konowa asked. Jaal had recommended Sergeant Lorian be promoted as the Iron Elves' regimental sergeant major and Konowa had happily agreed. As with most of the details, the Prince had neglected to find an RSM and no regiments would give theirs up. Konowa came to a halt in front of the troops and returned Lorian's salute while the soldiers came to attention. It was still taking Konowa by surprise—the only salute he'd received in the forest had been Jir lifting his leg.

  "No, sir, I was just culling the herd. The Prince's leaflet has attracted quite a few volunteers, including this dwarf."

  It was said evenly enough, but Lorian clearly disapproved of the soldiers gathered around them. Not that Konowa blamed the man, a career soldier and proud of his service. The collection of troops before them was appalling. Every regiment, regular army, and those assigned to protect the Trading Company had taken the Prince's gold and selected the very worst from within its ranks. It appeared that every corner of the Empire was represented. There was a group of black-skinned warriors from the southern islands, the number of battles they had participated in marked in scarring lines on their cheekbones, and even a pair of pale, pasty fellows with corn-yellow hair who could only be from the northern fishing enclaves of the Dirilza. Konowa knew there wasn't a weedier, rougher-looking group of soldiers assembled anywhere within the Empire at that very moment.

  Of course, there was one bright exception. Before he'd left, the Duke of Rakestraw had convinced five of his hussars to transfer to the reformed Iron Elves: four veteran troopers and, of course, Sergeant now Regimental Sergeant Major Dhareg Lorian, the latest in a growing list of those who had tried to kill Konowa on first meeting. They weren't elves, but they were first-class soldiers, and that was rare enough.

  Konowa turned his attention to the dwarf.

  "A dwarf, you say? Well, that would certainly explain his height," Konowa said, giving the soldier a quick appraisal. Little more than four feet tall, he was as broad as any two elves across the shoulders. Obvious intelligence sparkled in a pair of clear blue eyes, about the only feature of his face besides a squashed nose that his beard of tangled black hair, in which the remnants of his breakfast still clung, didn't obscure. His uniform looked like a collection of rags held together by spells instead of stitching, but his boots were sturdy and well polished and his double-barreled shatterbow and the scabbard for his drukar gleamed with obvious care.

  The dwarf's mouth opened and closed, but then he nodded and smiled. "You have a keen mind you have, sir. I was tellin' my mate Alwyn here that very thing I was. That officer there, I said, he's a bright one. I like to be forthright an' honest like a good sigger should in explaining to these youngsters the ways and means of the world, keeping in mind the vagaries of service to her Blessed Majesty all the while—"

  "Can you read, Private?" Konowa asked, cutting him off.

  "Oh, yes, sir, Major. See my pay book," he said, lifting the top of his shako and pulling out a small red booklet and opening it to the first page. "Says Private Yimt Arkhorn right across the top there."

  Konowa looked. There were a multitude of marks and notations for transgressions of military law and good order, most falling under the infamous four-letter rubric BWTD—Brawling-Whoring-Thieving-Drinking. The area for rank had clearly been erased and rewritten several times. "It appears that it used to say Sergeant Arkhorn, Royal Engineers. That's a long way from nursemaiding wagon trains."

  Private Arkhorn coughed. "Misunderstandings and out-and-out jealousy, sir. Some folk just aren't as keen to serve Her Majesty as others, you see, and they resent those of us like you and me who excel, if you take my meaning. You can't make a spell without breaking a few crystal balls, as me grandmare used to say, but alas, not everyone holds to that philosophy."

  "Impertinent little rat," Lorian growled, taking a step closer. "He's been busted more times than I've had hot dinners, Major."

  Konowa flipped through the pay book and was astounded to see paymaster stamps dating back over thirty years, from virtually every major campaign and battle the Imperial Army had fought in. He handed back the pay book and raised his hand. "And seen more fighting, too. However, that doesn't address our problem. If you can read, Private, then you'd know the call for troops excluded dwarves."

  "Begging the Major's pardon, but that's not true," he said. To prove his point, he lifted the top of his shako again and pulled out one of the leaflets, turned it upside down, and pointed to the part about dwarves. "See here, in black ink it says dwarves need not apply? Well, that's as plain as the wart on a witch's teat. Means dwarves are automatically accepted; we don't even need to apply."

  Konowa looked away momentarily to hide the smile on his face. Lorian, however, had just about lost it.

  "This is absurd, sir," Lorian interrupted. "The dwarf is making a mockery of the call for volunteers. The Iron Elves—"

  "Is now made up of humans," Konowa said calmly, looking at the sergeant, "so adding a dwarf doesn't seem all that troublesome."

  "But his teeth, sir, look at them. He's one of them rock eaters."

  "Eat rocks?" the dwarf roared. "What kind of mad-hatter do you take me for, begging your pardon, sir. You don't eat them, you chew them."

  Konowa had indeed noticed the pewter-colored set of teeth in the dwarf's mouth.

  "Grew up in the mines did you, Urilian Mountains?" Konowa asked.

  The dwarf nodded. "That I did, sir. Was noshing my first bit of crute afore I was even weaned. Bit tough on me dear old ma'am. But not to worry, I ain't lit off a cartridge yet on account I use Lil' Nipper here," he said, patting the shatterbow affectionately. "The range is a tad shorter than a musket, but she makes up for it in wallop. Been in the family for years. It was my aunt's, you know." He smiled, his metal-impregnated teeth glinting like newly minted coins.

  Konowa turned to Lorian. "He could probably ignite every cartridge and shell from here to Calahr with that silver tongue of his, so I don't think there's much point worrying about his teeth. We're going to need every able-bodied soldier we can get. He can stay. In fact," Konowa said, stepping away from the troops so they could all see him, "any sigger that wants to tread that path of glory and prove himself can stay. I don't care what you've done up to this point, and I don't care who you are. From this moment on, you are Iron Elves, and if you aren't the finest troops in all the lands right now, you will be." Konowa refrained from adding the postscript: or you'll be dead.

  A bugle call sounded from over by the Prince's marquee, three long, two short, two long. Konowa grimaced then resumed a look of nonchalance as he turned and headed back to see what the Prince wanted now. The voice of Private Arkhorn carried on the air like the squawk of a nattering magpie.

  "See that, I told you I'd convince him!"

  "But you were complaining ever since Corporal Kritton volunteered us. You said that joining the H
intys was a one-way ticket to death and glory," another soldier said.

  "Glory and death, Ally," the dwarf corrected him, "glory and death. The key is to get them in the right order, and make sure there is a lot of space between them so you can enjoy the first."

  "You think we'll get a chance for that?"

  "Ally," Arkhorn said, his voice dropping low so that Konowa could barely hear it, "I think we'll get more chances than we can use in a lifetime."

  "They are absolutely despicable!"

  Konowa barely nodded. The air was already thick with heat and his head still ached from his overindulgence with Jaal. He'd never fully appreciated the relative coolness of the forests of this land, as well as their lack of Sala brandy and persuasive friends.

  Prince Tykkin stamped a boot on the ground, sending up a lazy cloud of dust. "The colonels have taken advantage of my generosity and given me nothing but dregs. These soldiers are a disgrace." He paused and took a deep breath. "Major?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Is that a dwarf?"

  Konowa followed the Prince's stare and saw Private Yimt Arkhorn at the end of it, all four blustery, roguish feet of him.

  "Yes, sir, a veteran, sir, twelve campaigns. He was in Rewland with your father thirty years ago. I asked around, and he's as good a sigger as you're likely to find."

  The Prince sniffed at the word sigger, and it occurred to Konowa that in His Highness's refined circles nicknames, especially crude ones, were not in vogue.

  "What's he doing here?" the Prince asked. His voice had climbed an octave and his cheeks were blushing like a pair of polished apples.