The Light of Burning Shadows (4 page)

I
f life had ever been easy for Konowa, he couldn’t remember it. Not during his childhood, not when he commanded the first Iron Elves, and not now when he served at the pleasure of the Prince. In fact, things had taken a decidedly downward trajectory for him since, well, always. Just how far down they could go remained to be seen.

He paused in his self-pity long enough to lean over the railing of the
Black Spike
and vomit.

Then there was this. Konowa stared at the green waves below and wondered what it would take to drain the bloody ocean and be done with it. His stomach heaved and he vomited again. For all its power and grace and family history, the
Black Spike
was still a ship, and ships had the single most unfortunate attribute of having been designed to sail on water. As much as Konowa detested traveling by horseback, riding the waves was worse. After all, you could always shoot a horse.

The ship dipped into a trough between waves, then surged upward, leaving Konowa’s stomach and the last of his dinner twenty feet below. An elf, he told himself—this elf at any rate—was designed to have his feet firmly planted on the ground. Konowa was not—and experience had confirmed this many times over the years—meant to be in a saddle, up a tree, or on the water. Whenever he was, the end result usually found him flat on his back on the ground. The problem with being at sea, however, was that the ground was a hell of a long way below the waterline.

Sailcloth snapped and rigging thrummed above his head. He glanced up. What had been a breeze the last few days was now turning into a steady wind. Billowing clouds on the horizon threatened a coming storm. Captain Milceal Ervod had assured Konowa they would make safe harbor in two days at Nazalla, one of only three cities of any size along the shoreline of the Hasshugeb Expanse, before the storm came upon them.

It couldn’t come soon enough. Assaulting the seven islands had been a bloody and costly affair. Each attack served to satiate his blood lust, but he would have forgone even that for a quicker passage to the deserts. Despite the number of Her creatures he had dispatched by his hand, his anger and his frustration had only grown. For all Konowa knew, even now Her forests were growing again in the blood-soaked sand. The falling Star in the east had unleashed dormant powers across the world, although Konowa was convinced the Shadow Monarch’s hand was also involved. Since then, rumors of other Stars had rippled through the Empire and beyond, but no sightings had yet been confirmed. In a way, Konowa wasn’t sure it mattered. The damage was done. Stars or no, the very idea of change sped through the air. Call it unrest, call it the urge to be free, call it fear of the unknown—the world would never be the same again.

The Shadow Monarch haunted his sleep, though he no longer believed they were simply dreams. Things had been set in motion that were bigger than any of them. Yes, change was coming. Knowing what he did of the world, Konowa found some small comfort in that thought…and a hell of a lot of trepidation.

“Sergeant Arkhorn reporting, sir!”

Konowa turned to rest his back against the railing. The dwarf stood to attention, his caerna flapping dangerously high in the wind.

“At ease, Sergeant, for all that’s good and proper, at ease, and secure that hem.”

“Right you are, sir,” Yimt said, draping his ever-present shatterbow across his front. The back of his caerna continued to wave in the wind.

It took a moment for Konowa to realize what the dwarf had said. “Reporting, Sergeant? I don’t recall asking you to report.”

“Ah, no, not exactly, Major, but I reckoned you would soon enough so I anticipated your command. Sir. Besides, I can’t stay too long down in the hold of a ship. Makes me feel what my great-grandparents must have gone through.”

Konowa suddenly felt less sorry for himself. “So they were—”

“Slaves,” Yimt said. If there was resentment in his voice he hid it well. “Last group shipped over before the royal decree abolishing slavery. Took another fifty years, mind you, before dwarves were granted the rights of full citizens, but as me mum always said, ‘It’s a long journey for people with short legs.’”

Konowa found himself wanting to meet the mother dwarf who had raised Sergeant Yimt Arkhorn. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her.

Yimt cast a look down at his feet before returning it to Konowa. “I heard stories growing up, all dwarves do, about the conditions in the ships’ holds. Do you know the ship owners actually threw rocks and dirt down there to make the dwarves feel more at home?”

“I didn’t know that,” Konowa said. “I would have thought that might have helped a little.”

The dwarf’s knuckles turned white as he gripped his shatterbow. “They threw the rocks in after the dwarves were already chained inside. Whoever survived and dug their way out was strong enough to work. The rest would be carted out later by the survivors.”

Not for the first time Konowa questioned his service to the Empire. “I always thought my people had it the worst when the Empire brought its idea of civilization to our shores. They came primarily for the oak, looking to build more ships like this one,” Konowa said, patting the railing. His rejection long ago by the Wolf Oaks in the birthing meadow still stung.
Bloody magical trees had judged him and found him unworthy of sharing their power with him.
Still, looking around a ship of this size, he found himself sympathizing, a little, with the elves of the Long Watch. “A lot of Wolf Oaks were lost in their prime. Many bonded elves took their own lives. I lost an aunt and two cousins. It was indeed a dark time.”

The color in Yimt’s knuckles returned. “We all had it the worst. If you aren’t part of the Empire, you’re probably about to be, and joining don’t come easy.”

Yimt took a hand off his shatterbow and began tugging at his beard, a sign Konowa knew to mean a deep and possibly deeply disturbing thought was about to be shared.

“Something on your mind, Sergeant?”

“As it happens, Major, there is. We cleared seven islands filled with all manner of terrors. We lost a few of the boys along the way, though I suppose they ain’t all the way lost, but it amounts to the same thing. And now we’re headed to the Hasshugeb Expanse, a land that’ll cook your eyes right in their sockets, and that’s just at midmorning.”

“You’ve been there?” Konowa asked.

Yimt shrugged his shoulders. “Made port in Nazalla twenty some years ago. Never made it past the local entertainment establishments, though. Found myself in a slight disagreement with a fellow dealing cards off the bottom of the deck. One thing led to another and somehow most of his nose wound up on the floor. They’ve got some right nasty diseases in them parts, I told my commanding officer at the time.”

“Your point, Sergeant?” Konowa said. The dwarf could peel paint from a wall just by talking to it.

“My point is, some of the men now say we have two princes leading the regiment.”

Konowa stood bolt upright. “Who’s saying that?”

Yimt smiled. “Ah, you see, that’s exactly the sort of thing the Prince would say, now isn’t it? The men are concerned, Major. A Star from myths and bedtime stories turns out to be real. So does the Shadow Monarch. Extinct monsters aren’t and the lads think they’re doomed to never really die. But that ain’t what’s really bothering them.”

Konowa knew the surprise showed on his face. “It isn’t? What’s worse than all of that?”

“You,” Yimt said, looking Konowa straight in the eyes. “They need to trust in you. They need to believe that no matter what kind of hell is out there, their commanding officer will do everything he can to bring them home.”

“The Prince is—”

Yimt interrupted Konowa. “The Prince spends most of his time in his quarters with his maps and books. The lads even have a pool going on what we’re really doing going to the Hasshugeb Expanse. Three to one says we’re chasing another Star. Four to one has it we’re going after other assorted treasure for the Prince.”

“I thought you would understand,” Konowa said. “When we find the first Iron Elves, we’ll be whole. They’re the key. We have to find them before She does. With them we’ll be able to take the fight directly to the Shadow Monarch and finish this.”

The dwarf didn’t back off. “And just how, exactly, with all due respect, Major, is that supposed to happen? Near as I can tell, it’s
us
who are bound by the oath, not them. It’s
our
boys that are starting to go a bit funny in the head. Why should
your
elves want to join up for this? If Kritton, that miserable excuse for a soldier, was anything to go by, some of those lads might not be too happy to see you.”

Konowa turned his face to the wind and let the salt spray sting him. The pain brought him some small measure of relief. In choosing to destroy Her forest at Luuguth Jor, Konowa had given up a chance, perhaps his only chance, to break the oath that doomed all soldiers in the Iron Elves to eternal service, and perhaps something worse. By using the Shadow Monarch’s power so cunningly given to him through his father, Konowa had unwittingly done Her bidding. With every passing day, the treacherous pull She exerted grew, though whether that was Her doing or something dark and twisted within Konowa himself he did not know.

Konowa was the only one who truly saw things as they were. There was solace to be found in the fact that the soldiers currently bound by the oath were not the original Iron Elves, and Konowa clung to that thought. Even if he couldn’t explain it to Arkhorn, Konowa knew finding them would mean salvation for both. He would find his original elves and return their honor to them. Combined with the soldiers he now commanded, they would overcome any foe the Shadow Monarch sent. And when Her creatures were defeated, Konowa would lead them to the very heart of Her mountain forest and break the oath for all time, setting them all free.

“We both know,” Konowa said, “I can order these men to do whatever it takes, but I hope with your help they’ll follow me because they know I’m right, and because they trust me.”

“Well, as my dear ol’ mum is wont to say, “In for a tail, in for a dragon.’ I can keep the lads focused, for now. A little rest stop in Nazalla certainly wouldn’t go amiss either. After a few weeks floating around out here with only horror islands and nightmares about trees to keep them busy, they’re starting to lose the polish off the old crystal ball.” Yimt took a step closer to Konowa and lowered his voice an octave. “But, Major, when we do go for our stroll in the desert, I hope for all our sakes those elves of yours are there waiting.”

Yimt stepped back and sniffed the air. “You know, I think I’ve breathed enough salt out here to never need it again at the dinner table.” He stood to attention and saluted. “Evening, Major.”

“Sergeant,” Konowa said, watching the dwarf walk away.

Konowa turned back to watch the sea. The wind threatened to lift his shako off his head and he reached up and took it off, letting his black hair blow wild in the coming storm. A steely glint flickered in his eyes and a trace of frost fire sparkled in his hands. Soon, he would be reunited with the original Iron Elves. And with them, the regiment would be unstoppable.

Konowa held on to that thought as he heaved his guts over the side, cursing every drop of water in the ocean as he did. It almost made him long to be back in the forest.

Almost.

A
ship-of-the-line on the high seas is a marvelously graceful and robust creature. Ribs of oak fully twice as thick as a man’s chest, miles of rope tendons, acres of canvas muscle, teeth of brass and iron able to tear apart anything that came within their grasp, and skin of pine, copper, and tar make it the single largest collection of manmade parts ever assembled.

A ship-of-the-line is, however, an equally delicate collection of parts that is forever perched perilously in the water on a thin keel, like a walker on a rope stretched taut across a cliff. Balance is everything. Should it tip too far to either side, it would begin a downward fall into the deep abyss.

Alwyn preferred the open water. The knowledge that his life hung on the slender threads of the craftsmanship of the shipwrights, the vagaries of the weather, and the skill of the
Black Spike
’s crew filled him, perversely, with a sense of calm. Everything changed when he set foot on shore. On land his anguish was boundless, as if it grew from the very depths of the earth and flowed through him. Out here, however, he found a certain peace, although the nightmares of Her remained.

He could almost convince himself there was still a chance things could return to the way they were before.

Someone coughed and Alwyn looked up from cleaning his musket, setting aside the rag coated in brick dust he’d been using to buff the metal to a bright sheen. The black flames of the frost fire burned away blood and other fleshy bits—a neat trick all the soldiers had quickly put to use—but rust in the salty sea air bloomed orange and red every night on any bare metal left exposed. In the army, there was always something a corporal or sergeant would give you grief about.

The surviving members of Yimt’s section were grouped around one of the ship’s sixty-eight-pounder carronades on the upper gun deck. It seemed appropriate to Alwyn that Sergeant Arkhorn would secure them a spot on the ship near a weapon characterized by its short, powerful, and temperamental nature. Firing a sixty-eight-pound cannon ball at a low muzzle velocity meant the projectile didn’t fly all that far, but it hit with a vengeance. The slower speed resulted in the shot splintering any wood it struck instead of punching a hole straight through. The result was absolute havoc as a shower of deadly splinters sprayed forth from the impact. Unsurprisingly, the carronade had earned the nickname Smasher. No, Alwyn was not surprised at all that Yimt had chosen this as their home on the sea.

Most of the Iron Elves were quartered deeper in the ship, and it occurred to Alwyn that he rarely saw Yimt go down there. He was rarely here on the upper gun deck either, preferring instead to stay topside. Perhaps the dwarf enjoyed the waves and the wind.

Scolfelton Erinmoss, son of the Earl of Boryn, lay sleeping beside the gun, his mouth open, with drool hanging from his bottom lip. Despite his upper-class pedigree, he was simply known as Scolly. An apple-sized divot in the back of his head caused by a childhood injury had rendered him imbecilic and prone to angry outbursts. It had not, however, if the rumors were to be believed, made him ineligible to be the next Earl of Boryn.

Inkermon sat on a wooden crate, writing a never-ending letter, having gone to eleven pieces of parchment, both sides. To whom it was addressed remained a closely guarded secret and of some interest to the other soldiers. He looked up, sniffed and shook his head, and went back to his writing, mumbling about how they were all going to burn.

Beside Inkermon, Hrem Vulhber, a welcome addition to the group, reclined his massive bulk against an equally massive oak timber. He was reading an old copy of the
Imperial Weekly Herald,
his lips moving as he did so. Less welcome was the soldier leaning against the carronade and riffling through a small leather pouch. Zwitty laughed as he pulled out a small chunk of gold and put it in a hidden pocket inside his upturned shako. Alwyn thought the piece looked very much like a tooth, but said nothing.

“Out plundering again, Zwitty?” Teeter asked, pointing his unlit pipe at him. The ex-sailor with a limp that threatened to topple him over with each step had strung up a hammock from the low ceiling and was gently swaying with the motion of the ship.

“To the victors go the spoils,” Zwitty said, quickly putting the leather pouch away and tucking his shako under his arm. “There’s been loot on every island if you’ve got half a brain to look for it.”

“You mean dead natives,” Hrem said, looking up from his reading.

Zwitty made a long face. “That’s right. They’s dead, ain’t they? Finders keepers, I always says.”

“Robbing from the dead is one thing,” Hrem said, “but these poor souls we find out here are cursed. You take from them, you take the curse.”

A large vein began to throb noticeably on Zwitty’s forehead. “Cursed? You want to talk about curses! We’re the unlucky bastards that got cursed. The way I see it, we’re owed. We’re owed more than our wages and more than some stinkin’ ten gold pieces the Prince is offering for finding one of them dirty black elves alive.”

“Steady on, Zwitty, you’re getting yourself all worked up,” Teeter said. “This ain’t half bad, what we got here. Grog and wine for your drink, two hot meals a day, and a hammock to keep your bones off the floor.”

Zwitty spat onto the deck. “If it’s so grand, why are you in the army then, and not still in your precious navy, eh?”

Alwyn found his fist clenching and made a point to fold the cleaning rag up instead.

Teeter’s cheeks flushed. “I missed my ship when she set sail for the Battle of the Inthaal Sea, and they nailed me for doin’ a runner. Said I was lacking in moral fiber in the face of the enemy when all I was was drunk and sleeping it off. The lads shoulda come get me before they shipped out, but the bastards didn’t.”

Zwitty grinned. Alwyn found himself folding the rag so tight he was creating a small red dust cloud in his hands.

“So you’re not a coward then, just a drunk? Hardly seems better. Not that it matters anyway, because you’re as doomed as the rest of us.” He looked around at them. “Don’t you get it, our holy roller there’s got it right,” he said, pointing to Inkermon, who began to write even faster. “We’ve been press-ganged into something none of us signed up for. You know what they say about curses, though…” Zwitty said, letting the thought hang in the air.

Alwyn actually didn’t know what they said and was about to ask, but Teeter sat up straight in his hammock and pointed his pipe at Zwitty.

“You just stow that kind of talk right now.”

Zwitty sneered. “I’m not saying nothing, but if a certain someone were to lose their head, I’d wager we’d be free of this curse before his pointy ear hit the—”

A large, meaty hand belonging to Private Hrem Vulhber shot across the top of the carronade and grabbed Zwitty by the collar. “When’s the last time you went topside for a nice long walk? Personally, I think you’re overdue.”

Zwitty’s face began turning purple. He dropped his shako to the deck, spilling the contents while both hands clawed at Hrem’s, trying to pry himself loose. Finally, Hrem released him and Zwitty stumbled backward, drawing in great gasping breaths. “I could have you up on charges for that. There are witnesses.”

Alwyn looked at the other soldiers lounging about the carronade.

“No one saw anything, Zwitty,” Alwyn said, reaching down to pick up Zwitty’s shako. Zwitty grabbed it out of his hand and quickly stuffed his fallen loot back inside.

“You’re all fools. We can end this curse, but none of you has the guts to do it.”

“Guts to do what?”

Alwyn looked up as Yimt appeared from behind another carronade and strolled up to stand beside Zwitty. Despite his significantly shorter stature, the dwarf simply exuded confidence that made him appear like a giant.

“Zwitty here was just telling us how he’s going to try walking along the railing up top,” Hrem said. “Says he can make it all the way round the ship without falling over. Wants us to try it with him, but we’re all rather comfy here at the moment, so he’s off to try it alone. Ain’t that right, Zwitty?”

Zwitty glared at Hrem, but only nodded.

“Well, aren’t you the daring fellow,” Yimt said, patting Zwitty firmly on the arm and propelling him away from the group. “Off you go then, and watch when you get near the bow. The major’s been revisiting his last couple of meals up there and the wood’s a bit slick.”

Zwitty muttered something none of them could hear and quickly strode away. It wasn’t until Zwitty had disappeared from sight that Alwyn realized he had been holding his breath and let it out slowly.

“Now then, what are you reprobates up to?” Yimt asked, leaning against the swell of the carronade’s muzzle and rubbing his back against the iron.

“Oh, discussing the whys and whats of life and love,” Hrem said, flexing his hand as he got comfortable again against the oak rib. “Out getting some fresh air again, were you? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you didn’t like it down here.”

Yimt stiffened, then smiled and laughed. “What’s not to like? It smells like a dead sheep around here.”

Alwyn took a cautious sniff, then immediately regretted his decision. They really did smell like dead sheep. Very old, very wet, and very dead sheep.

“Tain’t our fault,” Teeter offered from his hammock. “The soap they give us is made of mutton fat.”

“You’ve used it then?” Yimt asked.

Teeter waved his unlit pipe in the affirmative. “In a manner of speaking. I traded it to one of the sailors for some chewing tobacco. Can’t smoke down here, more’s the pity.”

“Oh, you’re a clever bunch, you lot,” Yimt said, bowing his head as if in great sorrow. “It’s a wonder the Empire’s lasted as long as it has if this is the caliber of siggers there are to defend it.”

“You could always jump ship and swim for it,” Hrem said. “Of course, with those metal teeth of yours, I imagine you’d go right to the bottom.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a first-rate swimmer. The mines fill up with water more than you’d think. If a dwarf can’t swim and hold his breath, he ain’t got much of a future. And speaking of futures,” Yimt said, catching Alwyn’s eye and giving him a wink, “yours might be shorter than you think in this elite gathering if you don’t mind your manners. It’s by my good graces alone that you were allowed to join such esteemed company,” Yimt said, pushing himself away from the carronade to walk over and sit on a large coil of rope. “Of course,
Private
Vulhber, I could assign you to the Color Party. They’re always looking for big lads that can stop a musket ball.”

Hrem made a show of pondering this, though everyone knew the answer. Being a member of the Color Party was a great honor, right up until it stopped being one when you were dead. The enemy always tried to capture the Colors, making the guarding of them crucial in every battle. It also meant you were a prime target. Alwyn himself had volunteered for the Color Party three times now, but Yimt had denied his request.

“No one here’s looking to be a hero,” Hrem said, “well, ’cept maybe Ally there. You keep charging ahead of us like that and you’re bound to come to a sticky end.”

Alwyn smiled and tried to wave it off. “I just get my blood up, you know? I’m not trying to be anything.”

“You’ll be a Darkly Departed is what you’ll be if you don’t watch it,” Teeter added. “You don’t want to be joining our dead like Meri and the rest of those poor souls.”

“I can take care of myself,” Alwyn said. He could feel the color coming to his cheeks. This was nothing he wanted to talk about.

“Now, now, leave the lad alone. He’s young, he’s foolish, and he’s got a magical tree for a leg,” Yimt said. “I think it’s just a matter of the wood wanting to get ashore so it can plant itself and start sprouting some leaves.”

Laughter echoed off the timbers and Alwyn found himself chuckling.

“You mock his plight,” Inkermon said, setting down his parchment and pointing his quill at Yimt.

“He’s just kidding,” Alwyn said. “There’s still hope.”

“Hope? You mock that, too,” Inkermon said. “You all mock this…this
abomination
that has befallen us. Do you not see? Our curse grows with every passing day. The foul temptress haunts our dreams even as She calls forth creatures long dead, and now the very earth we walk attacks us, burning our very souls alive.”

There was only the sound of the wind and the creaking of wood. Inkermon had touched on something none of them wanted to talk about. Alwyn and Hrem looked at each other, then quickly looked away. Feeling his shadow burn had been pain beyond his experience, but there had been something else as well. For a moment, before he extinguished the white fire, Alwyn had felt a clarity and sense of peace that he had not known since taking the Blood Oath. It was as if Her powers were being cleansed from his very soul.

Yimt slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “Right. Put a big bloody cork in it, all of you,” he said, turning to look each one of them in the eye. “What is or isn’t the state of our eternal rest is a conversation for another day. Right now, it’s time. Grab your kit and get topside. We’re going to honor the poor bastards while the weather holds.”

Hrem climbed to his feet and began buttoning up his tunic. He gave Scolly a gentle nudge with his boot. Scolly opened one eye and looked around.

“Are we going to bury them now?”

No one said anything. Finally, Alwyn nodded. “Yes, Scolly, we’re going to bury them now.”

Scolly opened the other eye and sat up, stretching and yawning as he did so. “Only, I was having a dream and the Shadow Monarch was there. She seemed…happy.”