M
ajor, there!" Lorian shouted, pointing toward the gap.
A group of four elfkynan came walking through, their pace slow and even. They were dressed in bright crimson-colored robes and tall white hats that rose to a point more than a foot above their heads. Each hat bore a shining blue gem in the center that sparkled with the last rays of the setting sun. All four carried tall walking sticks of a dark brown wood entwined with green vines.
"Shamans," Lorian said, his voice rising with indignation.
"These poor buggers have been throwing away their lives thinking they could
protect them from musket balls."
"Don't judge a tree by its bark," Konowa said, the old proverb of his father's coming back to him. He watched the shamans, looking for some grand gesture or conjuration, but they showed no outward sign of being in the midst of battle, or of being in danger at all. Wizards were forever getting under Konowa's skin.
A group of thirty elfkynan warriors dressed in dark blue robes and carrying spears followed close behind. As they passed through the trees, they fanned out in a circle around the first four.
Konowa pushed his senses outward. He came up against something incredibly vibrant and warm, a feeling so natural and peaceful that it caught his breath. The four red-robed figures turned as one to look in his direction.
"Magic all right…" he managed to say, grabbing hold of Lorian to steady himself in the saddle. The feeling reminded him of the calm he had felt when Visyna had woven her magic earlier. It wasn't the deadening of the voices of life, but a complex harmony that made simple, beautiful sense.
"Major, are you okay? Major?"
Konowa tried to speak, but no words would come to his mouth. The four shamans continued to stare at him, their faces calm, their posture relaxed.
"They've bespelled you," Lorian muttered, shouting orders at once.
"Take out those shamans! Front row, by volley…fire!"
Most of the troops had not had time to reload, but at least twenty had, and at a distance of less than a hundred yards they couldn't miss.
The sound of musket fire sounded from far away. Konowa knew he should care about it, but found it difficult to do so. He started to urge Zwindarra toward the circle, then gasped, feeling as if he had fallen through ice on a frozen lake. He came to his senses at once, the acorn bitterly cold against his flesh. The air shimmered in front of the circle of blue-robed warriors and then cleared again. Not one had fallen. His siggers had missed. Shouted orders echoed down from the fortress. The howitzer in the fortress boomed, its flight almost straight up as the gunners tried to land a shell within the circle. The shell carried long, coming dangerously close to the Iron Elves by the river, and exploded harmlessly in dead ground, throwing splinters of red-hot metal through the air.
The elfkynan warriors nonetheless decided it was time to find safer ground and moved toward the protection of the four shamans, slipping through the ring of blue-robed warriors. As more and more elfkynan stepped through the circle the warriors moved out, increasing its size until it held more than a thousand elfkynan. Soon, all the elfkynan able to make it to the circle had. Chants of
"Sillra! Sillra!" rose in volume again as they called on the Star to finally reveal itself.
The Iron Elves looked to Konowa, waiting. This was far beyond their experiences. Muskets and bayonets were their tools, tried and tested, yet they had failed in front of their eyes. It was an unsettling feeling in the lee of the coming night. Not believing what they were seeing, a couple of siggers actually fired without orders. Both times the air shimmered about the circle and no elfkynan was hurt. Somewhere in the line a soldier laughed. Konowa shared the sentiment. Just minutes ago, the elfkynan were being cut down in droves, the shamans doing nothing to prevent it. Now they stood in a perfect killing ground, surrounded by the Iron Elves, and apparently impervious to harm.
Torches and lanterns flamed to life as the last rays of sunlight dimmed. The regiment was growing restless, and Konowa knew Prince Tykkin would be apoplectic, wondering why Konowa hadn't ordered a charge to finish the elfkynan off, shimmering air or no shimmering air. Something would have to give.
The cold in Konowa told him something now would.
It started with the trees. As the sun disappeared below the horizon, the shadows were stretched to their full length, their shapes a dark, twisted stain on the ground. Frost began to crackle wherever they lay, the grass withering beneath the weight of obsidian crystals sparkling in the twilight. To look down was to see the night sky beneath their feet, and many soldiers and elfkynan alike felt a sudden nausea at a world inverted.
A ripping sound criss-crossed the earth between the trees and then surged upward as sickly white roots stabbed skyward, impaling the many elfkynan bodies littering the battlefield. Red blood turned black as the roots began to grow into new trees, their limbs stretching outward like many-fingered hands, groping for contact with the other
sarka har
.
Konowa swayed in the saddle as the hunger of the trees washed over him. He felt a surge of anger, a hunger of his own to destroy them all, to leave him in peace. The confusion of the world as he had known it, that constant thrum of life just below the threshold of understanding forever poised to overwhelm him, seemed a simple, wonderful thing now.
A musket fired, the ball tearing into a tree with no real effect. The howitzer in the fortress boomed in response, tossing a fizzing cannon shell high into the air, its path easily followed by the trail of sparks it smeared across the sky. The gun crew's aim was better, as this shell landed near the trees to the left of the square. It detonated on impact, and both trees and foes were shattered by the blast, but not enough.
"Hold your fire!" Konowa shouted, his mind racing. Zwindarra tossed his head and pawed at the ground nervously, but still responded to Konowa's commands.
The encircled elfkynan were even more agitated, their cries of Sillra falling away as they witnessed the desecration of their brethren. The four shamans in the center of the circle stood back to back, their eyes closed, both hands gripping their staffs, chanting silently. Konowa expected to see a bright light, a glow, something, but though the wizards continued to chant nothing appeared to happen.
"Major, over there!" Lorian shouted, reining his horse in as it reared and neighed in fright.
Konowa swung around in the saddle to look, but he had already felt it.
Gray, awkward shapes were crawling from the water. The creatures were man-sized, their heads a blunt, eyeless knob with a circular mouth filled with rows of small, pointed teeth. There didn't seem to be a neck, just a scaly tube for a body, studded with spikes and supported on what looked like four short legs.
They were the huge ancestors of the bara jogg that swam the river.
Their progress was slow, their transition from water to land an uneasy one. Konowa cast a glance back at the elfkynan to make sure they weren't preparing anything and urged Zwindarra closer to the river. As he got closer, the reason for the creatures' strange gait became apparent. What he had taken for legs were just four large spikes that flailed and scratched at the ground for purchase, propelling them up the bank and toward the Iron Elves.
Konowa's mind was still reeling when a more familiar and unwelcome sight greeted his eyes. Rakkes emerged from the trees, their hulking forms all but hidden within the shadows save for the glow of their white, milky eyes. They began roaring and beating their chests, working themselves into a frenzy. Konowa figured they had a minute, maybe two.
"Major?"
"There's no point holding the river now. We've got to get the men up to the fortress as quickly as possible. I need you to keep them in check; we'll
go slow and steady. No stragglers, no heroics, and I mean it."
Lorian nodded, a gesture mostly lost in the dark. "There's
still the matter of the elfkynan between us and the fortress. How do we get by
them while keeping those monsters at bay?"
"I don't think we have too much to worry about from them for the next little while," he said. The elfkynan were clearly horrified by the new trees squirming to life and showed no sign of mounting any kind of attack. The Iron Elves were no doubt troubled by the spectacle as well, but discipline would hold them together where others ran. Discipline, and an oath.
"Very good, sir," Lorian said, adjusting himself on the elfkynan saddle, which appeared a bit too small for him.
The howitzer in the fortress fired again, the shell landing only a few yards from the previous one. Instead of exploding, the shell bounced, the ground within the ring of trees hardened with frost. It started rolling toward the square, the fuse still sputtering. A soldier leaped out of line and ran toward the shell. He bent over it and fumbled with the fuse, trying to pull the burning cord out. After two failed attempts, the soldier simply picked the cannonball up and heaved it at the trees, where it exploded a moment later. Konowa didn't need to see his face to know the identity of the only soldier who could toss a cannonball like that.
"If he was a little smaller, Private Vulhber would make one hell of a cavalryman," Lorian said, his voice filled with relief and pride.
"Regiment, load muskets!" Konowa shouted, cantering Zwindarra in front of the line of soldiers at the edge of the river. Muskets were held at the hip as cartridges were pulled from leather pouches, the iron ball bitten from the top of the waxed paper that held the black powder, a portion of which was poured into the pan. As one, the regiment grounded their muskets and poured the remaining powder down the barrel, the musket ball following. Ramrods rattled and banged.
"Regiment will fix bayonets!" The sharp clang of steel on steel rever-berated in the cold air, and Konowa smiled at its familiar tune. He would get these men up to the fortress no matter what black horror stood in their way.
"What about the guns?" Lorian asked, using his halberd to point at the two positions at either end of the line.
Konowa spit. "There's nothing for it, they'll have to be left behind. We'll
never get the muraphants down here now. Have the gun crews fire double canister
shot into those things coming out of the water, then a couple of shots into the
trees, and then go. The one in the fortress will have to do."
Lorian spurred his horse to a gallop to relay the message. Konowa watched him go, quickly running things over in his mind. They had close to three hundred yards to cover to get to the safety of the fortress, normally a three-minute march.
Konowa stood in the saddle, resting the balls of his feet on the stirrups.
"Cannon will fire on my command…fire!"
The night momentarily lit up as twin gouts of sparks burst from the muzzles of the two five-pounders, scattering two hundred musket balls along the riverbank. The huge bara jogg blew apart, their scales no match for the force of the canister shot. More bara jogg still crawling out of the river began feeding on the remains of the others. Konowa was sure no one would straggle after seeing that.
The gun crews were already pivoting their guns to face the trees nearest the regiment, the sizzle of the wet sponge extinguishing the remaining sparks in the barrel before the next charge was rammed in place surprisingly loud in the cool, night air. The quiet was broken a moment later when the rakkes set up a new howl, and some of them began lumbering forward.
"The cannon will fire on my command…fire!"
Portfires, the metal sticks holding a length of burning cord called slow-match, were brought down to the touch hole at the rear of the cannon barrel. The flame came in contact with the fuse, in this case a goose quill filled with fast-burning powder, which ignited at once, sending flame directly into the powder charge inside. The guns roared, the force of the shot sending them rolling backward on their wheels. Each disgorged a solid cannonball through the air and into the trees.
The force of the impact uprooted several trees and scattered steel-like splinters into the nearest rakkes, felling them as forcefully as musket shot. It was enough to send the rest scurrying back for a moment, which was exactly what Konowa was waiting for.
"On my command, regiment will form a hollow square and
prepare to march. Regiment…form square!"
In an open field in daylight the maneuver could be quickly and easily done by a well-drilled regiment. This was not an open fieldit was night, the Iron Elves had had almost no time to practice complicated drills, and creatures from nightmares roared and crawled all around them.
Lorian's voice rose above the din, and in turn the sergeants and corporals got their men moving. Konowa directed Zwindarra toward the gun crew near the gap while Lorian went toward the other, each shouting at the men to hurry up. The two guns crews came running in a moment later, a wagon wheel being rolled by each group. Konowa kept twisting around in the saddle, trying to keep an eye on both the tree line and the river.
Everywhere he looked there was a threat. Everywhere his senses flowed he felt the malice and the hunger and knew there would be no negotiation, no mutual retreat. There would be only those not yet dead.
When the last man finally entered the ranks, Konowa and Lorian rode in and the Iron Elves closed around them, facing outward.
Typically, a square was formed to defend against roving cavalry. It allowed line infantry to create, in effect, a miniature fortress with all-round defense, their bayonets a bristling abatis, their muskets a deadly fusillade, and most important, the sense of security that derived from standing side by side with other soldiers, comrades in arms, friends. A square was strong only as long as all four walls held. A single breach would invite destruction.
The large bara jogg, their impromptu meal finished, responded by jerking and rolling their bodies faster up the bank, teeth-filled mouths opening and closing in anticipation of more flesh. The rakkes began to howl again and move forward, sensing the change was in their favor.
