Chris Evans - The Light of Burning Shadows

“I think Alwyn’s on to something,” Zwitty said, clearly unwilling to let the subject drop. His scare in the alley was clearly still on his mind. “We’ve just accepted this curse and gone along and done everything we’ve been asked to do like good little soldiers for the Prince and the major. But what about us, eh? Who’s working to see that we get out from under this thing? Where’s our reward? Maybe that white fire’s the cure.”

“Zwitty has a…point,” Inkermon said. He was lying flat on his back staring at the smoke swirling around the ceiling. An empty bottle of wine was tucked under his arm, while another almost empty bottle balanced on his stomach. “The more I think about it, the more I wonder if the Creator may have sent it to rid us of this cursed oath.”

“By burning us and our shadows alive? Some bloody help that is,” Yimt said. “We’re better off with the magic we know.” He quickly looked around at them. “Provided we don’t use it.”

“We were better off before,” Alwyn said, his head clearing and visions of the islands flashing in his mind. “And the only way we’ll be better again is when we’re finally done with it, or it’s done with us.”

“Oath or not, we’re fed, we’re watered, and the night’s still young,” Teeter said, slapping his thigh and looking around at them. He reached out a boot and gave Scolly’s sleeping form a nudge, waking him up after the third kick. “And all of us are awake. So, where do they keep their women?”

Teeter had every soldier’s attention. Alwyn tried to laugh, but found his throat was constricted and his lips too dry to form sound. Women. It still didn’t seem possible to him that they were now relaxing in a pub-talking, eating, drinking-when just a few short days ago they had been in pitched battle. And now the idea of women seemed more foreign still.

Yimt motioned for them all to lean in, a gesture completely unnecessary, because every one of them was already crowding in around him. Alwyn elbowed someone to move over and was surprised when Inkermon elbowed him back.

“I spoke with the proprietor of this establishment earlier, and explained that we’ve been for some time deprived of companionship of a more delicate, but not too delicate, nature. After some persuasion,” Yimt said, patting his shatterbow, “he has made certain arrangements to remedy our predicament.”

“Yeah, but what about the women?” Scolly asked.

“He does mean women,” Alwyn said, finding his voice again.

Yimt looked to the ceiling. “Using subtlety on you lot is like a witch not wearing a hat…no point. Yes, women. There are women upstairs, but-” he said quickly as they all made to get up, “there is a catch.”

“Our money’s good here. You said yourself this guy knows which way the wind’s blowing,” Zwitty said.

“I did, and he does, but that’s not the problem. If you all go traipsing up the stairs as a group it’s going to attract attention from this crowd,” Yimt said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, “and menfolk the world over get protective of their women, even the working girls, when outlanders show up.”

“So what did you work out?” Teeter asked.

“You go up one at a time. It keeps things respectable, and we prevent a riot.”

“Who goes first then?” Zwitty asked.

Alwyn suddenly found Yimt staring straight at him. A moment later the rest of the group, even Scolly, were staring at him.

“Maybe…maybe someone else should go first,” Alwyn said, unbuttoning his jacket farther. It had gotten very hot in the pub. “We have all night, right?”

Yimt shook his head. “No one’s been through more since we became Iron Elves than you, Ally, and I know I speak for every soldier here when I say if anyone deserves to go first, it’s you. Right, lads?”

There were nods of agreement and a few muttered “yeahs,” none of them overly enthusiastic, but no one was prepared to disagree with Yimt. At some level, Alwyn thought he did deserve to go first, but at a more fundamental level the idea scared him the way no rakke ever could.

“Well, get on with it then,” Teeter said, forcing a smile. “The sooner you get up there, the sooner the rest of us get a chance.”

This thought galvanized the group and the level of enthusiasm for Alwyn’s looming liaison grew.

“Easy, easy,” Yimt said, standing up and helping Alwyn to his feet. “He’s just going to enjoy a little fun, not storm the gates of the Shadow Monarch’s forest.”

A waiter arrived bearing more wine and another platter full of fruit, which worked to divert the interest of the soldiers long enough for Alwyn to find himself being pushed toward a set of stairs across the room. A man nearly as large as Hrem, wearing a red vest and voluminous blue pantaloons, stood barring the entrance, his two bare arms folded across his chest like mighty oaks. Alwyn turned to Yimt.

“Listen, I appreciate this,” he lied, “but I think someone else should go before me. What about you?” he asked, looking at Yimt.

Yimt smiled up at him. “I’m happily married, remember? And even if I was unhappily married, dwarfettes take marital vows seriously. Did you know they don’t wear a wedding ring? Chafes their finger when swinging an axe, which, as it happens, is the traditional marriage gift a mother gives her daughter.”

“Like a little silver one you mean?” Alwyn said, trying to picture it.

“Full-size and sharp enough to peel eggshells. Makes for one hell of a honeymoon, I can tell you that,” Yimt said, the smile on his face suggesting it was a type of hell not entirely unpleasant.

“Okay, then what about-”

“Ally,” Yimt said, holding up a hand, “there’s always a first time for everything, and this is yours. Enjoy. Just be yourself and she’ll find you the most fascinating man in the world.” He lowered his voice an octave. “She’s paid to.”

Alwyn looked up the stairs past the large man, then back at Yimt. “But look at me. I’m a freak. I have tree limbs for a leg. I can conjure black flame with a thought. I…I talk to dead people, and they talk back to me. I’m not normal, Yimt.”

“Owl droppings,” Yimt said. “So you’re a bit unique-just makes you that much more interesting. I’m a dwarf, Hrem’s a giant, Scolly’s a dullard, Teeter’s former navy, Inkermon’s holier than thee, thou, and they, and Zwitty is, well, Zwitty. Compared to us, you’re about as normal as we got.”

Alwyn wiped the sweat from his brow and took a couple of deep breaths, accidentally fogging his spectacles. “It’s just that, I haven’t exactly, you know…”

Yimt reached out a hand and placed it on his arm. “That, Ally, is the worst-kept secret in the regiment. Time to put an end to it.”

Alwyn nodded and turned toward the stairs, but Yimt’s hand drew him back.

“I don’t think you’ll be needing this where you’re going,” he said, gently lifting Alwyn’s musket out of his hand. “Now go.” Alwyn found himself spun around and facing the large man, who nodded at Yimt, then stepped out of the way. Alwyn looked up the stairs, then back at Yimt.

“They look a bit steep, and with my leg-”

“Which is no longer hurting you, remember?” Yimt said, giving him a firm push.

Alwyn stumbled up the first step then paused, said a silent prayer, and walked up.

T he two men stalking the alleys of Nazalla were seasoned hunters. They’d taken down sailors, soldiers, and once even an unwary wizard. They’d never hunted an elf before, but this was their turf. There wasn’t a tree in sight.

They would never be that wrong again.

Elves are very good hunters in the dark. Those bonded with the power of the Wolf Oaks are even better.