Chris Evans - A Darkness Forged in Fire

"Told you that would see him on his pegs again."

Alwyn stumbled to his feet, knocking someone to the side, a canteen filled with drake sweat tumbling to the ground, its contents gurgling obscenely onto the dirt. His senses fought with each other over which felt more pain, and the effect almost canceled each nauseating sensation out…almost. His stomach roiled, his eyes watered, his head pounded, his legs wobbled, and his right shoulder and arm trembled with raw pain.

The flogging. As if reading his mind, a hand grabbed hold of his left arm and steered him to a thick vine. Alwyn collapsed in front of it, leaned his back against it, and let his head hang down between his knees.

"You might want to adjust yourself there, Ally-there're womenfolk present," Yimt said.

"Wh-what?" Alwyn croaked, not recognizing his own voice.

"Fix your caerna, lad, you're showing your wares."

Alwyn focused his eyes and saw his bare legs and the cloth of the caerna bunched up by his waist. He used his left hand to tug the cloth back into place and then looked up at the blurry figure of Yimt.

"I can't do this, Yimt, I can't be a soldier." This time he knew the voice to be his; it spoke from his heart.

The dwarf seemed taken aback for a second, then shook his head and knelt beside him. His knee bones cracked as the dwarf settled into a squat using his shatterbow as a rest while he handed Alwyn his specs and a canteen.

"This one is just water," Yimt said, tilting the canteen up and letting its contents dribble into Alwyn's mouth.

It was warm and scummy, but it helped.

"Now you listen to me, Ally. I don't want to be hearing no more talk like that. You're shaping up to be a fine soldier. Flogging's a lousy task, that's all. I made sure everyone knew you had a case of the trots something fierce, and that's why you keeled over like you did."

"So the entire regiment thinks I have the runs?" Alwyn asked, pulling his caerna down a little more.

"Sure," Yimt said, beaming at Alwyn. "The lads already knew you had one of them delicate constitutions. Better they think you can't keep anything in than…" The dwarf looked suddenly embarrassed, pulling on his beard and looking everywhere but at Alwyn.

So he thinks I'm a coward, too, Alwyn realized. He lowered his head as another wave of nausea swept over him. The flogging was just one more example of what he should have known all along. The little elf tailor had known, and Yimt knew it, too-he was too weak to be a soldier. He actually thought he had been getting the hang of soldiering; the marching and the yelling, the lousy food and long hours standing guard, but it had all been schoolyard games compared to this. Now that the potion was in the pot, he couldn't take it. He couldn't even swing a whip twenty times at the back of an elf he had hated and feared. It was all too damn hard. He raised his head to tell Yimt so and instead saw the major standing over him.

"How are you feeling, Private?"

Alwyn's self-pity vanished in a flare of white-hot anger. He lurched to his feet, raising his right arm in salute even though it shot needles into his shoulder. "The private is fine, sir. Shall I continue whipping the prisoner?"

The major blinked and looked over at Yimt, who shrugged from a position of attention. "You completed fifteen of the twenty lashes allotted for Private Kritton's punishment. I have deemed that enough."

"Really, sir? Only fifteen?" Rage gave Alwyn a courage he never thought possible. He stood up a little straighter and looked the elf right in the eye. "The corporal failed to protect the Prince's tent, after all, surely that deserves the full twenty?"

For a long moment, the major held Alwyn's stare, then he turned his back to him. "Arkhorn," the major said, "we move out in twenty minutes. You know the drill-see to it that the troops in your section have all their equipment. I don't want them shucking something they might need later just because it's heavy and the weather is hot. And make sure they all drink a full canteen of water. It's easy for a soldier to lose his head in this heat."

Alwyn glared at the officer's back and something inside him snapped. To hell with all of it! He reached out a hand to grab the major by the sleeve and was hit in the stomach by a full canteen of water, knocking the breath out of him and collapsing him to his knees.

"Not a problem, Major," Yimt said, walking over to stand between Alwyn and the elf. "I'll make sure they all stay cool."

The major turned slightly and looked past Yimt and down at Alwyn, his face giving nothing away. His one hand clutched at his chest as if holding something against his heart, then he spun on his heel and walked away. Alwyn was still gasping for breath when Yimt turned around and hit him on the forehead with the palm of his hand, knocking him backward onto his butt.

"What'd you do that for?" Alwyn asked, tears coming to his eyes. That angered him even more, and he propped himself up on his elbows, ready to stand up and take a swing at the dwarf.

Yimt leaned down and brought his face in close to Alwyn's. The eyes that had seemed forever twinkling with mirth and mischief were now cold and clear.

"That was to knock some sense into you," Yimt said, his voice cool. "What do you think, you can just quit? We're out in the middle of the wilds now, lad. Oh, I know what they say about the вЂLittle Mad One,' but let me tell you something, I've survived a lot worse than this when others around me got put in the ground. Life's bloody tough," Yimt continued, jabbing a stout finger into Alwyn's chest. "It's about time you grew up and got used to that. Out here, you don't just turn in your kit and scamper off to mother. Out here, you're either one of us, or you're one of them."

"One of who?" Alwyn asked.

Yimt shook his head in disgust and stood up. He shouldered his shatterbow and rested his hand on the hilt of his drukar. "The dead. Ask Meri." With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Alwyn feeling more alone and unsure of anything than he ever had in his life.

T he regiment marched because it was ordered to, but it was clear from the outset that they weren't going to get far.

They were mentally and physically exhausted, a fraying rope unraveling before a coming storm.

Soldiers saw faeraugs in every shadow. So many leaves and vines were bayoneted that someone, probably the dwarf, quipped their new nickname should be the Iron Gardeners. Derisive shouts of "prune the bastard" echoed up and down the line. The elfkynan atop the muraphants had their hands full keeping the beasts in check, waving their feather goads furiously and no doubt wishing they had something a bit more substantial like a good piece of wood. Soldiers shied away from the clearly agitated animals, and the column was continually stalling. Even then, Konowa thought things would soon calm down until he watched Jir stalk and pounce on a waving leaf, his hackles raised and an unsettling growl emanating from deep within the beast.

"We'll lose more men if we keep this up, sir," Konowa finally said, waiting for the Prince to explode in anger. To his surprise, the Prince only nodded, his thoughts clearly somewhere else.

Konowa ordered the regiment into laager. The remains of the afternoon were used to slash and burn vines to a hundred yards out on all points of the compass. A single, large bonfire of dead undergrowth was lit in the center of the camp, and several smaller ones spread out on the perimeter as darkness fell. No faeraug was going to get anywhere near them, not tonight.

Satisfied that all was in order, Konowa found the tent some soldiers had erected for him and crawled into it. He pulled the shako from his head, undid the top button on his jacket, and gave in to exhaustion.