The Light of Burning Shadows (19 page)

As Konowa thought about that, Viceroy Alstonfar rode up on his camel, his rotund form at ease on the saddle. “The Prince requests both your presences at the front of the column. We are moving out.”

“The city is still seething, Viceroy,” Konowa said. “Do you really think we can just waltz on out of here?”

Viceroy Alstonfar and the Suljak shared a look before the Viceroy spoke. “Concessions have been made.
Significant
financial concessions to the families of those who lost members last night.”

“You bought them off with gold?” Konowa asked. He turned in the saddle, despite the risk, to look more closely at the Suljak. “A few gold coins is enough to grant us free passage?”

“No, but that and my assurances about the fate of the Star are. Politics is a messy business, Major, and it requires setting a price on things that should never be valued in that way. Still, it is a necessary evil.”

Another look was shared between the Viceroy and the Suljak that Konowa didn’t like. Another time he would have pressed for more answers, but time—as so often happened—was not on his side.

The three snapped their reins and their camels began walking. There was still a sizable crowd outside the palace, but they were subdued as the gates swung open. Anger still emanated from them, but it was held in check. The Suljak waved to the crowd, and they began to back slowly away from the gate.

The Iron Elves stood shoulder to shoulder six men wide. Bayonets were fixed at the end of their muskets, which they held against their left shoulders as they awaited the order to march. The rising sun now glinted off the sharpened, bare steel with unmistakable menace.

The soldiers wore looks of grim determination, but Konowa knew much of their fierceness was anger felt at being sent out to the desert after just one night in Nazalla. It was a bitter blow after weeks on the high seas assaulting islands held by Her creatures, but it had to be; there was no choice. Staying in Nazalla was the equivalent of keeping a lit match in a powder magazine. There would be time enough to rest when they found the elves.

And the next Star.

Konowa caught himself. He wasn’t sure even he believed that about the Star, for after this Star there would be another, and another. Stars would keep falling and they would keep fighting, until when? How long could this go on?

Konowa reached the Prince at the head of the column and saluted. The Prince returned his salute, then turned his camel to face the assembled troops. Konowa expected a speech, but the Prince merely drew his sword, held it in the air, then brought it down. A drum took up a beat and the regiment marched in step out through the gate and into the city.

It was a somber procession, save for the still-grinning volunteers of the 3rd Spears. Konowa placed them at the rear of the column, hoping their presence there would discourage any kind of last-minute attack by a few rogues in the crowd. Though they appeared calm, the city seethed under the sweltering heat. The rumors of last night seemed to grow as the temperature rose. Konowa wondered if they could make it out of Nazalla before the citizens believed he had murdered babes in their cribs.

The Suljak rode serenely at the front, and when the citizenry saw him, they quickly stepped aside, bowing deferentially as he passed. Konowa recognized power when he saw it. He had no doubt that it would take but a flick of the Suljak’s hand to have these same people throwing stones and worse.

The column moved through the streets, silent but for the sound of their boots echoing off the walls. For now at any rate, the bargain had been made. Konowa suspected there were ramifications neither the Prince, nor the Viceroy, nor the Suljak saw, but what they were was anyone’s guess.

What Konowa was certain of was that if a price was to be paid, it would likely be exacted in blood from the Iron Elves.

T
yul rested near an outcropping of rock. He took the chance to take a drink from the waterskin that Jurwan had found for him before they left the city in pursuit of the remaining skeletal creatures. Tyul poured out some water into his palm for Jurwan. The squirrel drank slowly, pausing to look up periodically before lowering his head to drink again.

The sun approached its zenith, as did the heat. Tyul had removed the black clothing early in the morning, though the aberrations of nature he followed had kept theirs on. Tracking them was proving difficult. Despite moving on foot, they covered ground faster than should have been possible. Tyul found himself running in order to keep them in sight, which in itself was a challenge.

He peered around the rock. The three remaining skeletal creatures and the body they carried disappeared in the shimmering haze like true apparitions. He continued to watch until they reappeared several seconds later. They had covered much ground in the interval.

Tyul knew a power was at work aiding their journey. The farther they traveled into the desert the faster and more elusive the creatures became. As good a tracker as Tyul was, he realized he would not likely be able to keep up this pace for more than another day and night. He considered attacking them and killing them all while he still had the strength to do so, but then he would not have any answers—not know where they were going—and Jurwan had conveyed to him that that was the most important thing of all.

Jurwan finished drinking and scrambled up Tyul’s arm to rest on his shoulder. Understanding it was time, Tyul took another glance around the rock. The shimmering air stilled for a few seconds and he noticed something far in the distance. He squinted and tried to bring it into focus. Yes, there was something enticingly green up ahead. He blinked and looked again. He was certain there was a tiny smudge of green in a sea of brown. Tyul could track them to that.

He crossed over the rocks without disturbing the dust and renewed his chase. The creatures either did not see him or no longer cared that he followed them. Where the forest was Tyul’s home, this was clearly theirs. Tyul picked up his pace and kept them in sight.

Those were trees in the distance.

Tyul knew how to hunt among trees.

Alwyn crested a dune and paused, using the vantage point to scan the horizon. The sand dunes rippled in every direction, interspersed with rocky outcroppings that with time would be worn away as well. The heat slid over him like molten metal. He ran his tongue across his lips and winced. They were cracked and sore, and his eyes smarted as sweat stung them with every blink. Despite this, he found it was actually a pleasure to be off the wagon and walking. The movement gave his body something to do besides enduring the jarring of the ride. Although his stump was giving him trouble, the marching also helped him clear his head, and more important, it meant no more dreams.

The one of just a short time ago had faded to the point that he wondered how much was his, and how much was Her.

He remembered the Shadow Monarch reaching out Her hand…and he remembered reaching to Her…but then everything blurred. His memory went blank after that.

A brindo brayed and Alwyn turned to watch the wagon slowly creak past. As tough as they were, even the brindos needed a respite from pulling the extra weight. The three women remained on the wagon, talking quietly among themselves. Every once in a while, Miss Tekoy or Miss Red Owl would get off and sift the sand and weave the air, then they would set off again, always heading south.

Like Alwyn, the rest of the section walked along behind the wagon in single file. Even Jir had come out from his resting place to stretch his legs, though he seemed disoriented by the lack of trees. It was hard to mark territory when there was nothing to mark. Alwyn had already had to shoo him away from his wooden leg twice. Jir now slunk underneath the wagon, keeping pace and walking there in the shade.

Alwyn preferred the sun right now, no matter how hot. The limbs that made up his new leg creaked in the dry heat, and sand began to wear the burnished sheen of the wood. He didn’t want to use any more of the special tree sap until it was absolutely necessary, but if he didn’t find a way to protect the leg, it would eventually grind itself apart in the sand.

He looked around and then found a solution.

“Hey, Jir, come here, boy,” Alwyn said, beckoning to the bengar.

Jir looked out from underneath the wagon, his head tilting one way, then the other.

Alwyn clicked his tongue and motioned for the animal to come to him. “It’s all right, I just need you to mark a little territory.”

Teeter marched past, his chin resting on his chest as he limped through the sand. “That’s genius, and disgusting,” he said.

Jir came out and padded over to Alwyn, who pointed at the wooden leg and smiled hopefully. “You know you want to,” Alwyn said.

Jir sniffed at Alwyn’s wooden leg, then walked around him a couple of times. He stopped, sniffed again, then took care of business. Magic sparked briefly throughout the leg. The limbs became supple once again. Alwyn had to quickly shake his leg to keep it from trying to take root in the sand. Without earth to delve into, the magic channeled its power up the leg, reviving the wood as it went. Alwyn felt new shoots wrap around his stump and knew the leg would be good to walk on again for some time to come.

“Remind me,” Yimt said, trudging up to stand a few feet away, “to never borrow a toothpick from your leg again.”

“Great that your leg’s watered, but what about us?” Zwitty complained. “Shouldn’t we be coming up to that oh-way-seas place you were talking about, Sergeant?”

Yimt glared at Zwitty, then pointed forward. They continued walking. “We’ll get there when we get there, and no, Scolly,” he said, looking over his shoulder as the soldier came near, “we are
not
there yet.”

Scolly’s opened mouth closed into a pout.

They walked on in silence, each coping with the heat and the sun as best he could. Yimt flapped his caerna a few times to create a breeze before moving back to take his place walking beside the wagon and chatting with Miss Synjyn.

“You had to go and talk to the girl at the Blue Scorpion instead of just getting on with business,” Zwitty said, breaking the silence. He came close to Alwyn and poked a finger in his back. “Why couldn’t you have left well enough alone? We would have lived like kings in Nazalla. Now look at us. We’re right back out in the middle of bloody nowhere looking for more monsters. Who gives a damn if this Kaman Rhal character is out here? He can have his desert. There’s nothing here any sane person would want.”

“This is important, Zwitty,” Alwyn said. “We couldn’t just sit and wait in Nazalla hoping things would work out. And those people wanted to kill us. For all we know the Iron Elves and the other regiments are fighting them now,” he said, though he suspected that if that were really the case he would have sensed it. “We don’t have a choice.”

“We don’t have a choice?” Zwitty asked, holding his hands up in disbelief. “Ever since we took that damned oath we’ve had nothing but eternity staring us in the face. I figure we might as well enjoy the time we got here and now while we can.”

“What are you saying?” Alwyn asked, looking behind him.

“Yeah,” Hrem said, moving in closer as they marched, “what are you getting at?”

Zwitty looked around at them, then shrugged. “If we only got a short amount of time as men, and forever as shadows, why waste our time here plodding around deserts and jungles and the like? Why not go off on our own?”

“You’re talking about desertion,” Alwyn said. “They’d have you shot for that.” The rest of the soldiers bunched up around them to listen.

Zwitty snorted. “Don’t be a fool. What do you think’s going to happen to us if we stay here? Eventually we’ll be shot anyway, or cut down by a sword, torn in half by a cannonball, or something worse. I think I’d rather take my chances out there,” he said, waving his arm at the desert.

Yimt suddenly appeared beside them, the wings of his shako flapping as he stomped along to keep pace. He stuffed a pinch of crute between his gums and cheek, then stuffed a pipe into the corner of his mouth and lit it. “There’s more noise from you lot than a bag full of dragons and one virgin. I’d say you lads was gettin’ sun-crazy if I didn’t already know you. What are you jawing about anyway?”

“Zwitty was talking about having dessert,” Scolly said.

Zwitty snarled something under his breath.

Yimt puffed on his pipe, sending clouds of acrid smoke skyward. “Is that so, Zwitty?”

“The halfwit is talking through his shako. I didn’t say nothing about dessert.”

Yimt looked Zwitty up and down. “No, I’m sure you didn’t. But you know, seeing as we’re on the subject, I thought I’d relate a little story to you all. The sun and the heat out here can fry a man’s brain pan quicker than an egg on a skillet if he ain’t careful. Scrambles his thinking, it does. Before he knows it, he’s thinking the army life ain’t for him, and maybe he’d be better off out on his own.”

“Kritton got away with it,” Zwitty remarked.

The bowl of Yimt’s pipe sparked violently for a moment then subsided. “Aye, he did, but that was in Elfkyna. No shortage of water and food in that place if you know how to get by in a forest—and whatever else Kritton was, that elf knew how to take care of himself. But in case you haven’t noticed, this ain’t Elfkyna. Have a look around.” He took a few more puffs on his pipe as that sank in.

Alwyn did. Everywhere was shades of beige. Heat shimmered above the sand like sheets of glass wherever he turned his gaze. Rocks and great curving sand dunes provided the only change in an otherwise flat vastness of desolation. How anyone could live out here was beyond him.

“Not exactly paradise, is it?” Yimt continued. “Now if we was in Calahr or some other civilized place, a man might make a run for it, but then you have to ask yourself why? If you’re in a good place with food and drink and things is relatively calm, what’s the point of doin’ a runner? On the other hand, in a place like this there’s even less point. Where would a fellow go to out here? There’s nothing but sand, sun, and dying of thirst if something worse don’t get you first. You’re safer off with the army than not.”

Alwyn wasn’t so sure. It was being in the army that had brought them all to this point—oath-bound by the Shadow Monarch’s magic and doomed to eternal hell if they couldn’t find a way to break the oath. He looked around. Eyes betrayed fear and uncertainty.

“Now, it’s not for me to judge a man, elf, or dwarf who’s reached his breaking point,” Yimt continued. “The army will do that, and with a rope or a musket ball. Thing is, we all got ’em. Every sigger that ever put on the uniform has a breaking point. The major does. The Prince does. Even I do.”

“So what’s your point?” Zwitty asked. “We’re all going to snap like twigs in this heat and go stark raving mad?”

Yimt pulled his pipe out of his mouth and pointed it at them. “My
point
is that when a fellow reaches that breaking point, if he’s got buddies around who don’t entirely hate his guts, they’ll probably help him keep his head until he gets back to himself again. It’s the only way armies work. Going off to war and killing will crack anyone’s crystal ball. That’s why they keep soldiers together in regiments. You get to know the other fellow and maybe even become friends.” Yimt turned to look directly at Zwitty. “A friend, Zwitty, is a person who will do something for you without expecting anything in return.”

Zwitty only sneered and said nothing.

“I hate to interrupt your little chat, gentlemen, but I believe the oasis in question is just ahead,” Rallie said from the front seat of the wagon.

Alwyn and the others turned and climbed up the gentle slope to where she was pointing. At first, all Alwyn saw was shimmering sand and sky. Blurred images swam in and out of focus. He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes and immediately regretted it, then put them back on and tried again.

“Wait, I think I see it,” he said. A cluster of low, white-walled buildings appeared beside several palm trees. He looked away and then back. The palm trees were now smudged and fragmented, but now that he’d seen them he could keep some of it in focus.

“Load your men, Sergeant,” Rallie said, “I think it best we get there as quickly as possible.”

“You heard the lady,” Yimt said, “get your arses on the wagon. Move.”

Alwyn walked over to the wagon and began to climb on, not an easy feat with a wooden leg—no matter how magical—then paused and looked around. “Where’s Jir?”

The bengar was sniffing in the sand a few yards away. “Jir, let’s go,” Alwyn said, motioning with his hand. The bengar ignored him and continued to worry at a spot in the sand. He began pawing at it.

“Ally, get your butt on the wagon—the beastie can catch us up,” Yimt said.

“Just a minute,” Alwyn said, walking over to Jir. Alwyn gently nudged Jir out of the way with his musket, then looked down. It was only some cloth. Alwyn started to turn away when something about the fabric made him reach down and grab it.

“We’re getting baked to a crisp out here, Renwar,” Zwitty shouted. There were a few grumbles of agreement.

Alwyn ignored them and shook the cloth a few times to rid it of sand and dust. It was an unremarkable black save for a small section of embroidery just visible at one tattered end. Stitched on the cloth was a green vine. Alwyn looked down at his caerna and placed the cloth beside it.

The color and the vine were a perfect match.

This was part of the uniform of an Iron Elf.
But how?

“I’ve half a mind to take off your leg and beat you about the head and shoulders with it,” Yimt said, huffing as he stomped toward Alwyn. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, Alwyn called forth the frost fire. It sparkled in his palm and ignited the cloth. There, for just a moment, a tiny white flame burned before being consumed. The pain told him everything.