Chris Evans - A Darkness Forged in Fire

The Prince sniffed at the word sigger, and it occurred to Konowa that in His Highness's refined circles nicknames, especially crude ones, were not in vogue.

"What's he doing here?" the Prince asked. His voice had climbed an octave and his cheeks were blushing like a pair of polished apples.

"The regiment needs veterans who know one end of a bayonet from the other, no matter what their race. When the spell is cast and we're in the thick of it, all that matters is balls, sir, musket and soldier. We'll need both."

Prince Tykkin's eyes opened wider at Konowa's analogy, but the words apparently had an effect, because he remained quiet for several moments.

"Major?"

Konowa surveyed the troops and tried to anticipate which one had drawn the Prince's attention this time. The possibilities were too great. "Sir?"

"There's a soldier wearing spectacles. And that one over there has only one eye."

Konowa looked to where the Prince was pointing and sure enough, one of the new soldiers had a black patch over the socket of his right eye. The entire side of his face look ravaged from disease, but Konowa knew better.

"A misfire from his firelock," Konowa said, "the powder went off in his face. It happens when the metal gets hot from steady firing, especially with inferior muskets. The metal weakens and instead of sending the blast down the barrel, it bursts it at the lock, right where the soldier puts his cheek."

"The man should be invalided home, or placed in the commissary division," the Prince said. "How am I to build a regiment with material like that?"

"RSM!" Konowa shouted, pointing at Lorian. "Bring me that man at once."

The one-eyed soldier was unceremoniously yanked out of ranks and double-timed over to stand panting in front of the Prince and Konowa.

"Private Meri Fwynd, Y-your Highness, sir, Major," he said, bringing his right hand up to his ruined eye in salute.

"Private, the Iron Elves were once, and will be again, the finest regiment in Her Majesty's Army," Konowa said. "Why should Prince Tykkin have a cripple such as yourself in the ranks?"

"I ain't no cripple, sir," he said, his face flushing red. "Sure, I lost an eye an' the ladies don't look at me the same no more, but I can still put a ball through a piece of meat at two hundred paces and I can march till my feet are bloody stumps, sir! I won't let you or the Prince down, I promise you that."

"We'll see," Konowa said noncommittally, secretly proud of the soldier's outburst. "Return to the ranks; dismissed."

As the man saluted again and double-timed it back to the regiment, the Prince turned to face Konowa.

"What answers am I likely to get if we poll the rest of the soldiers?" he asked, the sarcasm in his voice noticeably absent this time.

"Versions of Private Fwynd. The dwarf has teeth worth a lieutenant's commission, but he knows his business. Damn near-pardon me, sir-darn near talked the point off my other ear. In fact, he and the one with spectacles shot and killed that rakke the other night at the piquet lines. Of course, they're not all good lads. We have more than our fair share of louts, thieves, ruffians, and wastrels, but I'd bet my life that they'll hold when the time comes."

For several moments the Prince said nothing, staring at Konowa without really seeing him. Finally, he spoke.

"They had better. If they run, it won't be an enemy bayonet they have to worry about, but an Imperial noose." With that he turned and walked away.

"And all you'll have to worry about is them deciding whether to run you through before the enemy does," Konowa said under his breath.

He stood there for a long time, watching the soldiers who would once again carry the name Iron Elves into battle.

T he following morning, the soldiers were on the point of mutiny.

Lorian had formed them into a hollow square and was issuing new uniforms and equipment out of two wagons. Konowa didn't need to be there, but something told him he should, just in case.

"I'm not wearing no dress!" Yimt yelled, tossing the offending item to the ground.

"Hold your tongue, you poxy dog!" Lorian roared back, stepping between Konowa and the soldiers. "You'll do exactly as you're told or it'll be the taste of rawhide on your back! You were eager enough yesterday to join."

"That was afore I knew you had to wear a dress!"

Konowa reached down and picked up the cloth, a rough, black wool overlaid with a dark-green vine and leaf pattern, and gently brushed the dirt from it. Another brilliant idea of the Prince's. "This is a caerna, a broad cloth worn wrapped around the waist. It's cut so that it's as long as a soldier is tall, which allows it to be wrapped around your waist two and a half times, and wide enough to cover from waist to knee. It was the fashion in Calahr some two hundred years ago and was considered a sign of honor, for only warriors could wear it."

"That's all well and good, sir," Yimt said, keeping a wary eye on Lorian, "but it looks like a dress to me."

The other soldiers chimed in, nodding and voicing their agreement.

"Besides, the Hintys didn't wear no dresses, er, caernas, afore when you were in charge, sir."

Konowa paused a moment before responding. The troops grew quiet, recognizing that they had reached the limit of an officer's indulgence. "Let's be perfectly clear," Konawa said, staring down any lingering resentment, "the colonel of this regiment, its knight superior, is His Highness the Prince. It is completely within his prerogative to attire the regiment as he sees fit, and he has done so. He has decreed that the Iron Elves adopt a new tradition in keeping with its resurrection, and in order to ensure a glorious future," he said. He hoped his sarcasm wasn't obvious; the men needed to trust their leaders. Without that, the regiment was doomed. "Some of this will no doubt seem odd at first, but you will get used to it…and you will follow orders."

"Will the Prince and the major be wearing them then?" Yimt asked. The silence was palpable as the men waited for Konowa's reply.

"The Prince has also decreed that all officers are to be mounted, and therefore will wear a trousered version of the caerna." The reaction he got wasn't a full-on revolt.

Private Arkhorn scratched his beard. "On horses? But what about when we form line and go into battle? Surely you'll come down then? You'll be as obvious as dragons in a pigeon coop up there."

Lorian snorted. "I've been in my share of cavalry charges with barely a scratch on me."

"That's all well and good, sir," the dwarf said, "but I'd wager you were going a mite faster than a foot regiment formed in line. The major here will be head and shoulders above us and moving at a snail's pace. The bastards in the enemy line will be drawn to him like flies to blood."

Konowa could have done without that particular analogy, especially as the dwarf was right. Sitting on a horse with a line regiment was akin to painting a target on yourself. Perhaps the Prince was trying to prove something to mother dearest back home.

"You just look after the boys to your left and right, and the officers will take care of themselves," Konowa said, with far more conviction than he felt. In fact, the more he thought about things, the less sure he felt about any of it. They were leaving in less than an hour, woefully unprepared to do so. They barely had enough "volunteers" to make up three companies of ninety men each plus the regimental staff and a handful of artificers. They had no surgeon and a colonel with no experience. Worse, they had no wizard. Konowa had thought his father would accompany them, but Jurwan had said he had other matters to attend to. What could be more important than this? Whatever it was, it meant the regiment was 313 souls, less than half of what the first battalion of a regiment should have. The leather pouch his father had given him now felt as light and insubstantial as the hope they had of surviving.