Chris Evans - Ashes of a Black Frost

Something hit him in the ribs and he opened his eyes in surprise. He looked over at Rallie who was looking back at him with all the innocence she could muster with an eerie blue-flamed cigar clamped between her teeth.

“My apologies, Major, I thought you were going to sleep on me. Now that you’re awake it’s best you stay awake.”

Konowa rubbed the sore spot and managed a grimace for a smile. “That’s quite all right. You know, I was searching the immediate area and noticing something very interesting. If your elbow hadn’t grazed me when it did I think I was about to notice quite a bit more.”

Rallie pulled the cigar from her mouth and let out a long, slow stream of smoke. Konowa watched it twist and turn within the confines of the space under the tarp as if it were a living thing. After what seemed an impossibly long time, the smoke found its way out and into the night sky. Konowa turned back to Rallie and found her staring directly at him. It wasn’t an unfriendly look, exactly.

“So,” Konowa said, desperate to change the subject, “I can’t help but notice we’re not moving. Any reason why my orders are not being followed? Time is slipping away from us. We need to get to Suhundam’s Hill.” He didn’t bother to add because my elves are there, and I have to find them before we leave this desert waste and head for Her mountain. Rallie continued to stare at him for a moment longer then smiled and put the cigar back in her mouth. “We’re already here, Major.”

“We are?” he said, throwing off the robes and getting to his knees before reaching up to push the tarp out of the way and standing up. The cold night air tousled his hair. He brushed a few strands from his eyes and peered into the darkness.

A crumbling pile of rock covered in ragged sheets of snow appeared a half mile away. It looked less a hill and more like the remnants of a rockslide from a long-vanished mountain. There wasn’t a smooth line in the entire feature. Every inch of it jutted and fractured like a block of ice repeatedly thrown to the ground.

“Major, really glad to see you up and about!”

“What?” Konowa asked, trying to focus. He looked down to see a young soldier staring up at him, the lad’s dirt-smudged face smiling. “Ah, Private Feylan. It’ll take more than a damn flying tree to beat me.” Though not by much.

“Hey, the major is all right!” Feylan shouted. RSM Aguom quickly ran up and shushed the private.

“Keep your voice down. Do you want to bring another orchard of those bloody things after us?”

Feylan nodded, but continued to smile. He stood up straight and saluted. Konowa returned it and turned to face Aguom. “What’s our situation?” he asked, walking toward the end of the wagon and staring down at the ground. The jump looked to be about three feet. He debated sitting down and then hopping off, but soldiers were beginning to cluster around. He was their officer, their leader in battle.

Saying a silent prayer then wondering why he bothered, Konowa leaped. He hit the ground and felt every bone joint crack. He stifled a cry, and drew in a deep breath, using it to straighten up his spine. Still, it could have been worse, and his vision was clear. Whatever was in Rallie’s medicine really did the trick. He slapped his hand against his side and didn’t feel his saber. Before he could turn he heard a clunk on the wood behind him and scabbard and saber slid to a stop at the edge of the wagon. Konowa smiled and grabbed it, strapping it around his waist by its leather belt. That feels better. “I don’t suppose anyone found my musket?”

“‘Fraid not, Major,” Aguom said, “but we do have a few spares. .”

Konowa paused as that sank in. “I suppose we do. If it’s still with us, I’d be honored to use Grostril’s.”

There was a murmur of approval from the troops. Konowa figured they’d approve, but he also wanted to honor the soldier. No one should die because of a damn tree.

“We’re in as good a shape as can be expected,” RSM Aguom said, waving a hand around to take in the soldiers standing near them. “This weather isn’t helping any though, and we’re pretty much out of everything except powder and musket balls, and they won’t last much longer at the rate we’re going. Major,” he said, stepping forward and lowering his voice, “if this regiment is going to remain a fighting force we need supplies. If there’s so much as a piece of moldy bread in that fort we really need to get it.”

“We will, we will.” Konowa turned his attention back to Suhundam’s Hill. It looked to be three hundred fifty feet at its highest though at this distance he couldn’t be certain where the hill ended and the night sky began. He searched for the small fort he knew was up there, looking for a lantern or cookfire glow, but nothing but the metallic sheen of the fallen snow reflected back.

“Stupid bugger,” Konowa said, cursing the late Captain Trilvin Suhundam. Recorded as a singular act of uncommon valor, Suhundam had led the spirited defense of a company of soldiers from the then King’s Grenadier Guards against more than five hundred Hasshugeb warriors some sixty-five years ago on that mess of rocks. Survivor accounts credited the officer with rallying the troops no less than twelve times when the natives appeared about to overrun them. On the thirteenth, however, Suhundam slipped and fell to his death, at which point the remaining troops conducted what was euphemistically known as a tactical reorientation vis-a-vis their direction of movement-they did the smart thing and took to their heels and ran.

Konowa hoped their experience here would be significantly calmer, but somehow he doubted it.

Konowa took a moment to adjust his uniform, aware that as second-in-command he had to look the part in addition to living it. He’d never gone in for the whole spit-and-polish routine that so many officers aspired to. He was more of a spit-and-get-on-with-it kind of officer. Still, his uniform really was looking more like a vagabond’s rags these days.

“To hell with it,” he muttered, wrapping the Hasshugeb robe around himself and slinging Grostril’s musket over his shoulder. The cold was getting worse, even if the snow had tapered off for the moment.

“If you’ll hold that pose for a moment I’d like to make a quick sketch,” Rallie said from the wagon bed.

Konowa turned slightly and raised his chin, looking off into the distance in what he hoped was a martial pose. Rallie balanced her sketch pad on her knee and poised her quill above it.

“A little less pompous, please. My readers like you; I’d hate for that to change.”

Konowa let his shoulders slump. “Fine, it was hurting my neck to stand like that anyway.”

“This will only take a moment. Try not to squirm,” she said, her quill now flying across the page.

Konowa felt goose bumps on his flesh and put it down to the wind. He surprised himself by realizing he felt good. Physically he was still more bruise than not, but emotionally he really did believe somehow, someway, they were going to make it. There was comfort in seeing Rallie with her quill. Even if she wouldn’t talk about it, he knew there was far more to it and to her. It was like having an extra cannon along. He would have still preferred to have canister shot for the three cannons they had pulled all the way from Nazalla, but Rallie’s quill and the questionable aid of the dead commanded by Private Renwar would have to do.

“Done,” Rallie said, tucking her quill away into the folds of her cloak.

“May I see it?”

“No.”

Konowa was momentarily perplexed. “Why not?”

“I meant to say I’m done, for now. I will have more work to do on it later.”