Chris Evans - Ashes of a Black Frost

The other rakkes appeared a moment later and then all four began to make their way down the slope toward him. Yimt took a quick look behind him, but the desert floor was still hundreds of feet below and the slope far too sheer for him to climb down. Turning back to the rakkes, he picked up a large rock in each hand and started calculating the odds. Two rocks, four rakkes.

Yimt blinked and wiped snow and sweat from his eyes and looked again. Two more figures stood atop the rock. It was difficult to make them out through the snow, but the wind died down just as they began to descend. He had time to see a drawn sword in the hand of one and a bow and arrow held by the other. A new gust of wind blew up and just before they were lost in the falling snow Yimt saw something far worse. Pointed ears.

“Nuns in butter,” he muttered, twisting the heels of his boots into the gravel in hopes of better footing on the slippery rock. “Rakkes I can deal with, but dark elves, too?” Fine, he decided, he’d have to make sure he kept an eye on the elf with the bow. If the twisted beastie decided to hang back and shoot he’d have little chance. Think, you daft dwarf, think.

He’d have to take out the elf with the bow first and then turn his attention to the rakkes, who were much closer. Hopefully, if the snow kept blowing he’d have enough cover that he could take on his attackers one at a time. It was a long shot, but it was all he had. He cocked back his left arm ready to hurl the first rock when he noticed black frost burning on its surface.

“Well I’ll be a newt in a pot,” he said, stopping in mid-throw. He focused on the rock and concentrated. Black flames rose two inches high along its surface. The roar of a rakke startled him as it reared up just feet away. Saliva flew from its open maw as its curving yellow fangs lunged for his throat.

With no time to look for the elf with the bow Yimt threw the rock. It smashed into the rakke’s face, breaking one of the upper fangs clean in two. The creature screamed in agony, but not from the broken tooth. Frost fire from the rock covered its face, washing it in flickering black flames. The oath magic took hold quickly, devouring the rakke before his eyes. First its black fur disappeared, revealing a gray, leathery hide that quickly eroded, revealing muscle and sinew that fell away in ribbons until only the silently screaming skull of the beast remained, before it, too, was consumed by the black frost.

Oblivious to the other rakke’s fate or simply too maddened to care, another of the creatures leaped over the rapidly disintegrating remains and caught Yimt full in the ribs with a clenched paw. White sparks exploded behind Yimt’s eyes as the other rock grew heavy in his hand and slipped from his fingers. He flew backward, landing in a crumpled heap on the edge of the ridge line with his head hanging over the precipice. His shako flew from his head to twirl like a top all the way to the desert floor.

Gasping for breath and clutching his side Yimt forced himself to his elbows and then his knees. He reached out with his right hand and patted the dirt looking for another rock to throw. A dark figure loomed over him and he looked up to see a rakke standing a foot away. Its mouth was a gaping jigsaw of sharp fangs. Yimt wondered why it hadn’t already lunged at him when he noticed it was cradling one of its paws. It was clearly shattered.

“You daft. . silly. . bugger,” he said, forcing the words out between breaths.

The rakke tilted its head in obvious pain and confusion.

“Punching a dwarf in the ribs that’s spent his whole life chewing crute is like taking a swing at a boulder. It’s the rock spice you bloody nitwit!” Yimt shouted, though the effort almost blacked him out. “It seeps into our teeth and bones. Makes them denser than you. Hell, not even a musket ball can make it through these things. And I should know.”

The rakke roared and threw back its head in preparation to pounce. Its head went back, and back, and then kept on going, rolling across its right shoulder and then tumbling down its arm and onto the gravel where it landed face up. Blood spurted from its neck as the body remained perfectly still.

“What the hell?” Yimt said, his hand finally locating a rock. He gripped it as hard as he could, feeling the frost fire take hold. His eyes, however, remained fixed on the headless rakke standing in front of him. Then as if the strings holding it up had been cut, the body collapsed straight down. It didn’t flop or spasm. Standing behind it, shrouded in swirling snow, was the elf with a now bloody sword. Looking past it, Yimt saw the crumpled bodies of the other two rakkes.

“Much obliged to you, but you ain’t taking me alive,” Yimt said, picking up the rock and bringing his arm all the way back. He saw the other elf appear out of the corner of his eye. Its bowstring was pulled fully back and an arrow pointed straight at him. The frost fire blazed like a star in his hand as he brought his arm forward to throw the rock at the elf holding the sword. The second elf released the bowstring setting the arrow to flight.

This, Yimt thought, is going to hur -

Konowa sat up straight on the wagon’s wooden bench and reached for his chest. The black acorn flared then grew quiet again. He grabbed up his musket and peered out into the night. There was nothing to see but snow and rocks and sand. Now back with the column and relatively safe he should have been able to relax, but it wasn’t working. I’m getting jumpy, he decided, sitting back against the bench. He looked over at Rallie, who continued to stare straight ahead, giving no indication she had noticed, though he knew damn well she had.

Better safe than dead, he consoled himself, resting his chin on his chest and pulling his shoulders up as far as he could. The cold was seeping into him, making him jumpy. He crossed his arms and, tucking his hands into the folds of his Hasshugeb robe, eased back further on the bench. With a scarf fashioned from a piece of a burlap sack wound around his face and his shako pulled low over his forehead only his eyes remained visible. Guilt gnawed at him in his cocoon, knowing the majority of the regiment marched in the foul weather while he rode in relative warmth. An icy gust found a chink in his fabric armor jolting him upright. He adjusted the robe before slipping back down into a semi-reclined position. For now, he could live with the guilt.

He wasn’t sure when he’d slept last. If they had any hope at all of getting out of the Expanse and to the coast he’d need to be sharp. It was a rationalization and he knew it, but he dealt with it by knowing the rear guard led by the very able Private Feylan rode along with him in the back of Rallie’s wagon. It was a well-deserved luxury and they had earned it.

Lest he be seen as playing favorites, he had also given the regiment permission to dip into the last sack of arr beans. There was no hot arr to be had on the move, but the soldiers popped the beans into their mouths and sucked on the bitter juice. Just the memory of the vile taste filled Konowa’s mouth with saliva. Each bean was like a shot of lightning. He’d once marched five days straight on nothing but water and a handful of arr. Of course, he’d started seeing orcs riding flying unicorns by the end, but he’d survived, and so would the Iron Elves.

He wriggled around, trying and failing to get comfortable. Muscles ached with memories of battle he was doing his damnedest to forget. He carefully rolled his right shoulder and quickly stopped as the motion gave fuel to the burning coal of pain lodged deep in the socket. His old friend the Duke of Rakestraw called it saber shoulder and said it happened a lot in the cavalry.