Chris Evans - A Darkness Forged in Fire

It was said evenly enough, but Lorian clearly disapproved of the soldiers gathered around them. Not that Konowa blamed the man, a career soldier and proud of his service. The collection of troops before them was appalling. Every regiment, regular army, and those assigned to protect the Trading Company had taken the Prince's gold and selected the very worst from within its ranks. It appeared that every corner of the Empire was represented. There was a group of black-skinned warriors from the southern islands, the number of battles they had participated in marked in scarring lines on their cheekbones, and even a pair of pale, pasty fellows with corn-yellow hair who could only be from the northern fishing enclaves of the Dirilza. Konowa knew there wasn't a weedier, rougher-looking group of soldiers assembled anywhere within the Empire at that very moment.

Of course, there was one bright exception. Before he'd left, the Duke of Rakestraw had convinced five of his hussars to transfer to the reformed Iron Elves: four veteran troopers and, of course, Sergeant now Regimental Sergeant Major Dhareg Lorian, the latest in a growing list of those who had tried to kill Konowa on first meeting. They weren't elves, but they were first-class soldiers, and that was rare enough.

Konowa turned his attention to the dwarf.

"A dwarf, you say? Well, that would certainly explain his height," Konowa said, giving the soldier a quick appraisal. Little more than four feet tall, he was as broad as any two elves across the shoulders. Obvious intelligence sparkled in a pair of clear blue eyes, about the only feature of his face besides a squashed nose that his beard of tangled black hair, in which the remnants of his breakfast still clung, didn't obscure. His uniform looked like a collection of rags held together by spells instead of stitching, but his boots were sturdy and well polished and his double-barreled shatterbow and the scabbard for his drukar gleamed with obvious care.

The dwarf's mouth opened and closed, but then he nodded and smiled. "You have a keen mind you have, sir. I was tellin' my mate Alwyn here that very thing I was. That officer there, I said, he's a bright one. I like to be forthright an' honest like a good sigger should in explaining to these youngsters the ways and means of the world, keeping in mind the vagaries of service to her Blessed Majesty all the while-"

"Can you read, Private?" Konowa asked, cutting him off.

"Oh, yes, sir, Major. See my pay book," he said, lifting the top of his shako and pulling out a small red booklet and opening it to the first page. "Says Private Yimt Arkhorn right across the top there."

Konowa looked. There were a multitude of marks and notations for transgressions of military law and good order, most falling under the infamous four-letter rubric BWTD-Brawling-Whoring-Thieving-Drinking. The area for rank had clearly been erased and rewritten several times. "It appears that it used to say Sergeant Arkhorn, Royal Engineers. That's a long way from nursemaiding wagon trains."

Private Arkhorn coughed. "Misunderstandings and out-and-out jealousy, sir. Some folk just aren't as keen to serve Her Majesty as others, you see, and they resent those of us like you and me who excel, if you take my meaning. You can't make a spell without breaking a few crystal balls, as me grandmare used to say, but alas, not everyone holds to that philosophy."

"Impertinent little rat," Lorian growled, taking a step closer. "He's been busted more times than I've had hot dinners, Major."

Konowa flipped through the pay book and was astounded to see paymaster stamps dating back over thirty years, from virtually every major campaign and battle the Imperial Army had fought in. He handed back the pay book and raised his hand. "And seen more fighting, too. However, that doesn't address our problem. If you can read, Private, then you'd know the call for troops excluded dwarves."

"Begging the Major's pardon, but that's not true," he said. To prove his point, he lifted the top of his shako again and pulled out one of the leaflets, turned it upside down, and pointed to the part about dwarves. "See here, in black ink it says dwarves need not apply? Well, that's as plain as the wart on a witch's teat. Means dwarves are automatically accepted; we don't even need to apply."

Konowa looked away momentarily to hide the smile on his face. Lorian, however, had just about lost it.

"This is absurd, sir," Lorian interrupted. "The dwarf is making a mockery of the call for volunteers. The Iron Elves-"

"Is now made up of humans," Konowa said calmly, looking at the sergeant, "so adding a dwarf doesn't seem all that troublesome."

"But his teeth, sir, look at them. He's one of them rock eaters."

"Eat rocks?" the dwarf roared. "What kind of mad-hatter do you take me for, begging your pardon, sir. You don't eat them, you chew them."

Konowa had indeed noticed the pewter-colored set of teeth in the dwarf's mouth.

"Grew up in the mines did you, Urilian Mountains?" Konowa asked.

The dwarf nodded. "That I did, sir. Was noshing my first bit of crute afore I was even weaned. Bit tough on me dear old ma'am. But not to worry, I ain't lit off a cartridge yet on account I use Lil' Nipper here," he said, patting the shatterbow affectionately. "The range is a tad shorter than a musket, but she makes up for it in wallop. Been in the family for years. It was my aunt's, you know." He smiled, his metal-impregnated teeth glinting like newly minted coins.

Konowa turned to Lorian. "He could probably ignite every cartridge and shell from here to Calahr with that silver tongue of his, so I don't think there's much point worrying about his teeth. We're going to need every able-bodied soldier we can get. He can stay. In fact," Konowa said, stepping away from the troops so they could all see him, "any sigger that wants to tread that path of glory and prove himself can stay. I don't care what you've done up to this point, and I don't care who you are. From this moment on, you are Iron Elves, and if you aren't the finest troops in all the lands right now, you will be." Konowa refrained from adding the postscript: or you'll be dead.

A bugle call sounded from over by the Prince's marquee, three long, two short, two long. Konowa grimaced then resumed a look of nonchalance as he turned and headed back to see what the Prince wanted now. The voice of Private Arkhorn carried on the air like the squawk of a nattering magpie.

"See that, I told you I'd convince him!"

"But you were complaining ever since Corporal Kritton volunteered us. You said that joining the Hintys was a one-way ticket to death and glory," another soldier said.

"Glory and death, Ally," the dwarf corrected him, "glory and death. The key is to get them in the right order, and make sure there is a lot of space between them so you can enjoy the first."

"You think we'll get a chance for that?"

"Ally," Arkhorn said, his voice dropping low so that Konowa could barely hear it, "I think we'll get more chances than we can use in a lifetime."

"They are absolutely despicable!"

Konowa barely nodded. The air was already thick with heat and his head still ached from his overindulgence with Jaal. He'd never fully appreciated the relative coolness of the forests of this land, as well as their lack of Sala brandy and persuasive friends.

Prince Tykkin stamped a boot on the ground, sending up a lazy cloud of dust. "The colonels have taken advantage of my generosity and given me nothing but dregs. These soldiers are a disgrace." He paused and took a deep breath. "Major?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Is that a dwarf?"

Konowa followed the Prince's stare and saw Private Yimt Arkhorn at the end of it, all four blustery, roguish feet of him.

"Yes, sir, a veteran, sir, twelve campaigns. He was in Rewland with your father thirty years ago. I asked around, and he's as good a sigger as you're likely to find."