Chris Evans - Ashes of a Black Frost

Nothing survived the onslaught.

Not wildlife, not Hasshugeb tribes, and certainly not Her dark elves seeking to end the creature’s existence.

The creature, however, felt no triumph. Insanity swirled in an ever-expanding vortex in its mind. More and more of its being was fragmenting, scattered on winds that no mortal could feel. In its fury at being cheated out of destroying the Iron Elves at the caravan, the creature was tearing itself apart. Only its need for revenge kept it from losing itself entirely. That one crystalline thought fixed and shone in the center of its madness like a diamond.

Suhundam’s Hill.

The Iron Elves.

Major Swift Dragon.

The soldier usurper.

Endlessly it repeated the mantra.

As it did a new, cunning thought began to form. The shades of the dead still aided the Iron Elves. No matter how fierce the rakkes, they were no match for such enemies. . alive.

Frost fire arced and spit across the creature’s body. The snow, stained with black ore, flew to it and began circling around it. A whirling storm of thick sheets of metal ice bands formed, each one rotating faster and faster. The earth cracked and buckled beneath its feet. Rakkes screamed and ran.

A high-pitched shriek rose above the siren wail of the spinning metal ice as the pull of circling bands began to tighten their orbits until they were cutting into what remained of its body.

Ribbons of flesh were gouged out of it like a plow cutting through loam. Each slice was a new exploration of suffering. Bone chipped and disintegrated while blood misted and crystallized, then fractured into ever smaller pieces.

It kept moving even as its body and mind were honed down to a razor thin existence. It drew more of the storm toward it until it vanished entirely in a maelstrom of gale force winds. For a moment, it was only energy, spinning itself tighter and tighter until the pressure became too much.

The wind died.

Everything went silent.

The spinning stopped.

The explosion released energy and agony. The bands of metal ice fractured, scything the air for hundreds of yards in every direction. Bits of the creature stained the shards.

Rakkes vaporized in a hail of ice and metal. Bodies flew apart, sliced and cleaved so minutely that it was impossible to tell what they had once been.

A remnant of the creature coalesced in the center of the blast. A cold, dark spinning core of black energy. It reached out with its mind, finding pieces of itself all around. It called to them, and shades of dead rakkes by the hundreds answered the call.

The surviving rakkes picked up their pace, their bloodlust unabated. The shades of the dead rakkes flowed between this plane and the next.

They were the creature’s revenge.

The creature would have smiled if it still knew how.

It had transformed itself. It had taken its pain and agony and multiplied it hundreds of times over.

Finally, after decades of servitude, it had an army to call its own.

Konowa rubbed his right shin and climbed back to his feet, waving for Private Feylan to continue. The soldier was moving quicker up the rocky path than Konowa expected. The footing was treacherous as every rise was slicked with ice, as Konowa’s shinbone could attest. Worse, no two were quite the same, so he couldn’t find a comfortable rhythm. Whoever had hacked the steps out of the rock had done so quickly and with little care or concern for craftsman-ship. The more Konowa thought about it the more he wondered about the likelihood of there being any booby traps at all. Considering the condition of the steps he doubted the workers would have had the time or the skill to set anything more dangerous than the uneven steps themselves.

“That’s a hundred, Major,” Private Feylan whispered. He stood just a yard ahead of Konowa, one boot resting on the step above, his musket held at the ready. Snow swirled above their heads providing a pale, reflected light tinged with the blue of the returned Jewel of the Desert. It made everything feel even colder, which was quite a feat.

Konowa nodded, hiding his chagrin. He’d been so busy trying to navigate the winding path without breaking a bone he’d lost count. He turned and looked at the Viceroy, who had the map out and held at what appeared to be a new angle.

“Problem?” Konowa asked.

“Wrinkle is more like it. I can’t quite make out a letter here, and I suspect it’s rather important. No matter, we’re good until the three hundred and first step. Of that I’m almost positive.”

Konowa looked back up at Feylan, whose eyes grew considerably wider. Konowa offered him a tired smile. “You’re doing fine. Just slow it down a bit. We’ll beat the regiment to the fort by a good hour as long as we do it carefully. Now hold there for a second, I want to do a head count.”

Private Feylan nodded and turned back to face up the path. Slinging his musket over his shoulder, Konowa eased himself around using both hands on the rocks near him to steady himself. A thin sheet of ice covered the rock giving his hands little purchase. He pressed harder as a boot heel began to slip out from beneath him.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered, ramming the palms of his hands against the ice and willing his body to stay upright even as his other boot began to slip as well. He tried to dig in, but only resulted in slipping faster. For a moment he treaded air, madly trying to find some footing. An idea formed from desperation sprang to mind and frost fire flared out from his hands to cover the rock and the step beneath him. His boots thudded down into the rough ice crystals and didn’t move.

Konowa’s sigh of relief was cut short as the butt of his musket banged against a boulder.

He cringed, but the noise was dull and didn’t carry. He deliberately looked past Pimmer, who was staring at him with mouth agape and caught the eye of the soldier behind him. “Everyone still with us?” Konowa asked as nonchalantly as he could.

A low murmur sounded followed by a few muffled aye’s before the wind drowned out the rest. A moment later the soldier nearest Konowa gave him a thumbs-up.

Konowa carefully spun himself back around to face up the stone stairs and gave Feylan a hand signal to continue. The soldier set out at once, but definitely with more caution. Konowa kept a close eye on where Feylan stepped and tried to place his boot in exactly the same spot while counting off the steps under his breath.

Before Konowa was ready they reached the two hundredth step. Again they stopped and Konowa did another head count while the Viceroy continued to spin his map for yet another new angle in a most disconcerting fashion.

Three hundred and one remained the magic number. All the soldiers were accounted for, so they pressed on until Konowa counted out two hundred and eighty. He reached out a hand and grabbed a hold of Feylan’s robe and pulled. The private stopped and turned.

“We’re getting close,” Konowa said, keeping his voice low. He motioned for Feylan to sit down as he leaned back against a boulder and caught his breath. Thus far the path, though steep, had run more or less in a straight line. Up ahead, however, Konowa could make out a sharp turn and then blackness.

The wind had a nasty trick of funneling down the path directly into their faces, carrying with it minute particles of sand and rock along with the metallic-tinged snow, stinging his face and making it even harder to see the way ahead.

Pushing his senses forward would be of little help here. If there really was an ancient booby trap up ahead the original builders would have had to have made it out of rock or metal. It certainly couldn’t be anything alive. . or could it?

Konowa closed his eyes and drew his thoughts inward, grasping the cold power of the oath bond and then strengthening it with his need. He pushed outward, opening his eyes to stare sightlessly as his mind surged far ahead, questing the rocks above them for something waiting to attack.