Chris Evans - A Darkness Forged in Fire

Kritton bared his teeth and stepped a few inches closer. "I could track you down anywhere, even if you fled to Her forest. But I am no fool. Your father is Ruwl's pet wizard. He walks in the spirit world, wields great power. He would protect you."

Konowa snorted. "My father could have done nothing even if he had wanted to, which he wouldn't. Some battles are an elf's to fight alone." The cold burned him as no fire ever had. He knew in a way that both thrilled and terrified him that he could reach out and kill Kritton with a single touch, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to fight that urge.

"Easily said when all the other elves are banished."

Konowa bristled at the words and took a step forward. "Enough! I offer you no more than what I offered you the first time: the opportunity to serve Her Majesty and this Empire. Do it with honor, and with conviction, and we will serve the Hynta as well. Now, either attack and accept the consequences or learn your place. I do not have time for the weak-willed."

The sound of boots heralded the approach of many troops, cutting off Kritton's reply.

"Is there a problem, Major?" Lorian said, coming around a tent with several soldiers behind him.

Konowa looked at Kritton, who returned his gaze with one of pure hatred before turning away. The acorn was no longer cold against Konowa's breast. It was as if a string holding him upright had been cut, and he had to concentrate on not falling down. Sweat beaded on his face and everything appeared blurred around the edges.

"No, no trouble at all. I was just getting reacquainted with an old friend."

Lorian didn't look as if he was buying it, but he knew enough to let it go. "Well, if you're done with the reunion I could really use the corporal's help in getting the new troops squared away."

Konowa nodded. "We're done, for now. I'll see you on the parade square," he said, not waiting for a salute. He turned and walked away, the blades of jimik looming mere inches from his side.

Konowa walked as fast as he could, but not fast enough to escape the cold, black warning that pressed against his heart.

N ow this is a sendoff," Yimt said as he marched beside Alwyn. "The Duke of Rakestraw is all right, even if he is a higher-than-thou."

Alwyn looked over and down to see the dwarf's head turned to the right, watching the band of the Fourteenth Household Cavalry play them out of camp. Their instruments gleamed under a pale blue sky dominated by the fiery white sun. Alwyn didn't recognize the tune, and couldn't tell if it was for good luck or good riddance, but it was bouncy and loud and it felt good, especially as it took his mind off the heat.

"I thought the cavalry had gone west," Alwyn said, mopping sweat from his face with the back of a sleeve. He then ran a hand over his face and held it out in front of him, pleased to see that the jacket's dye hadn't run. Maybe there were benefits to being in a regiment with a Prince as its colonel.

Yimt turned back to face straight ahead, the wings on his shako flapping slightly as he strode along. "Charging around at their own shadows like a flock of witless pigeons," he said.

Alwyn nodded, his eyes drawn to the sound of fluttering cloth up ahead. They had unfurled the Colors. Perhaps only the Queen Herself commanded more loyalty than the pair of square flags each regiment was given. The flags, always cotton with fine wool stitching (silk was for ladies' unmentionables, the recruiting sergeant had said, buying Alwyn another beer and pushing the enlistment parchment in front of him), hung from eight-foot-tall halberds carried by two color sergeants designated to protect them with their lives. Six very tough-looking soldiers, and that was saying something considering the recruiting pool, marched beside them, tasked in turn with protecting the color sergeants. It wasn't much of a walk to say that in turn the regiment looked after them. To lose a Color on the field of battle was worse even than running in the face of the enemy, so long as you took the Colors with you.

The dominant flag was the Queen's Colors, replete with the royal cypher of intricately woven letters and leafy garlands on a shimmering silver-green background. Rumor had it that the silver in the flag was real spun metal, but its worth as a symbol far outweighed however many ounces of precious metal might have been contained in it. The second was the Regimental Colors, a black flag with the national ensign of Calahr in the top left corner, while the main body of the flag featured a mountain range outlined in silver above a dark-green forest. Elvish script arced across this in steel-colored embroidery, which read Г†ri Mekah -Into the Fire. Alwyn felt both pride and fear at those words.

"Blast, the music stopped already," Yimt said.

Alwyn listened and realized the band wasn't playing anymore, but a new and exceedingly unpleasant sound had taken its place.

"Them ain't the Iron Elves! Look more like the Rusty Remains to me!"

"Hey you! You, the short, fat elf. What happened, did you fall out of a tree on your head?"

"We can relax now, boys, the Steel Faeries are here to save us."

Alwyn gripped his musket and glared back at the soldiers.

Yimt chuckled and patted Alwyn on the hand. "Pay them no mind, Ally, they're just jealous. Besides, remember that notion, sticks and stones and all that? There ain't nothing they can say that should bother you."

"Nice dresses, ladies!"

Yimt was a small, fast blur as he charged out of the ranks. "It's a caerna, you flea-bitten jockey!" he yelled, shaking his fist in the air to shouts of laughter.

Several band members dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs and clutched their sides as Yimt stomped around shouting curses that involved physical acts of self-pleasure that Alwyn figured not even a wizard using all his powers could accomplish.

"Why don't you play us a song under a full moon!" Yimt yelled, turning and bending over to reveal his fleshy dwarf posterior to the startled cavalrymen.

It was the Iron Elves' turn to laugh as several of them followed suit, offering their own cheeky salute.

Yimt darted back into the ranks and resumed his place beside Alwyn. "I stand corrected," he said, laughing merrily as he marched along. "Now that was a sendoff! Here, how about a song?"

"вЂThe Warlock's Lament'!" someone shouted.

"I don't know that one," Alwyn said.

"No worries, Ally, just follow along."

With that, the dwarf burst forth in what Alwyn could only assume he thought was singing, immediately joined by the rest of the regiment:

There once was a warlock old and randy

Who fancied a witch sweeter than candy

Beware old graybeard, watch out what you wish for!

May I take a dip in your cauldron sometime

Asked the warlock slyly pouring some wine

Beware old graybeard, watch out what you wish for!

If you polish my jugs, I'll grant you a wish

Rub my wand, said he, and I'll eat from your dish

Beware old graybeard, watch out what you wish for!

So he ate what she served, and she rubbed what he had

And nine months later his new name was Dad!

Beware old graybeard, beware!

New stanzas were added, with Yimt supplying most of the more colorful ones. Alwyn could only shake his head and wonder how high the dwarf might have risen in the army if he had put his creative energy to better use. Still, Yimt seemed happy, even if his crystal ball had a few cracks in it. The dwarf sure knew the ins and outs of army life better than anyone Alwyn had ever met. All in all, it was better having Yimt as a friend than an enemy.

"Now that's got the blood up," Yimt said, taking a break from singing to grab his canteen and have a drink. Alwyn took a quick look around, but no corporal or sergeant was in sight.