Chris Evans - A Darkness Forged in Fire

Lorian looked suddenly very embarrassed about something. Alwyn saw his chance.

"An advance party, Colonel, to announce your arrival to the garrison to give them time to prepare a proper reception." Alwyn realized he was out-and-out lying to the colonel of the regiment and the future King. He took a quick breath and continued. "Sad fact of the matter is, sir, some of the regiments don't hold to the same standard as others out here. The RSM was just telling us about how important it was that the garrison at Luuguth Jor be on top of their game. I had just volunteered to go with the advance party and help them get everything in order."

"Now that's initiative," the Prince said, nodding his approval. "I can see why you would be so eager to volunteer. Yes, we have a duty to all the regiments in the Imperial Army to set an example, but it wouldn't do to show them up too much at first, now would it, men?"

The soldiers gave the Prince a half-hearted "yes, sir."

"Well, don't dawdle around here a moment longer. RSM, get these men on their way immediately. The regiment will move out in ten minutes."

"Yes, sir, at once," he said, saluting the back of the Prince, who was already walking back toward his charger. He was barely out of hearing when Yimt was standing in front of Alwyn.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

The RSM intervened before he could answer. "It's done, Arkhorn, so do what the colonel said and get your boys out in front, now. We wouldn't want the garrison at Luuguth Jor to greet the Prince in their undergarments, now would we?" he asked, looking long and hard at Alwyn.

Yimt threw up his hands. "Fine. Three Section, grab your kit and form up. And you," he said, pointing at Kritton, "I want you ten yards in front of me at all times."

The elf smiled and bowed slightly, tipping his shako to Yimt. "Whatever you say, Corporal."

A single shaft of sunlight fell into the chamber through a crack in the half-shuttered window. Only then did the Viceroy realize he had forgotten to close it after the beast had come last night, bearing another dead sreex in its maw. He watched the light move across the stone floor, revealing the brown, dried blood and bits of flesh left over from the dragon's latest meal.

As the light crawled along the stone, not a single dust mote danced in its luminous path, so cold was the air in the room.

So cold, and so pure.

The Viceroy walked over to the window, opened the metal shutters wider, and looked outside, the first time he had done so in days. The sun was up, heating the coming rain clouds so that when their rain fell, it would be warm and dull, unsatisfying. Everything outside was soft with humidity. The land steamed and bubbled like a festering morass while the elfkynan moved listlessly through it, their tired insolence a palpable smell on the thick, wet air.

It was the smell of rebellion.

An example must be made. Not just one, or even a handful, but dozens, perhaps hundreds. Crush the spirit and the body will follow. But who? The Viceroy pulled the shutters to and locked them, turning back to the table in the center of the room. Here, in this room, it was cold like the top of a mountain in the dead of winter. With the cold came clarity. His mind now dissected ideas, formulated concepts, and discerned purpose with a razor precision he had only dreamed of before. Here, he had the power and the vision to see the coming of a great new age.

He moved toward the table, reaching out a hand and gently brushing it against the surface. The cold bit into his flesh, and he released a long, slow breath of pure pleasure, uncaring of the fact that no mist formed when he did so.

He understood it now, this thing that Her Emissary called its ryk faur.

Its needs were simple and immense, and he reveled in feeding it. To feed it was to satisfy his own needs, and in so doing the bond between them grew.

"Show me," he said, placing both hands firmly on the table. The cold enveloped him, peeling away shreds of his humanity a strip at a time and replacing it with something heavier, something stronger.

The air in the room thinned as a skein of ice crept up the walls and across the ceiling. The tabletop remained clear, its surface disappearing as the verdant landscape of Elfkyna swirled into focus, its lush abundance teeming with life, crawling with all manner of beasts, including one many-legged creature he was especially interested in.

The Iron Elves were easy to find, their presence on the ground as obvious as a signal fire in pitch darkness. They marched in a northeasterly direction, following the path of a fat, brown river to a fishing village.

"Luuguth Jor." Its ancient history radiated beneath the tenuous skin of life that existed there. Its memory went deep into the earth, tying it to things far older than even he could yet contemplate. He knew the Star was to be found there. Before, he had cared little if the Star truly was a lost talisman of an ancient magic, but now it mattered more than anything, because it mattered to Her.

He wormed his mind deeper into the howling force of the table's soul. The table shuddered, then calmed. The Viceroy saw the garrison at Luuguth Jor, their fear a palpable taste in his mouth. They were being hunted, though some yet remained. The temptation to reach out and crush them was so strong that he allowed a hand to stray across the surface of the table until it rested above a single soldier. With slow deliberation the Viceroy clenched his fist. At first, nothing happened. Feeling foolish, he began to withdraw his hand; then he saw a shadow move close to the soldier. There was a cold, sharp sting, and the soldier fell into shadow. Amazed, he brought his hands toward each other, encircling the village and the fortress above it.

"You begin to understand. Do Her will. Feed its hunger."

The voice resonated deep within his head, and he smiled that he did not startle.

Shadowy figures flowed across the land, closing in on Luuguth Jor. Voices cried out in pain as the souls winked out, smothered in black screams. The Viceroy placed both his hands on the table and absorbed the cold, and the fear, and was content.

Far below in the manicured gardens of the palace, a worker dropped her shears and stared at the plant she tended. Its leaves curled and blackened before her eyes, falling off the stems and tumbling to the ground. She made a warding sign and ran away, never looking back at the palace, so she did not see the growing black frost that stained the stone around a single, shuttered window.

The light was fading, and as it did shadows grew in length, covering everything in a suffocating cloak of darkness. The sky took on the appearance of slate as the rain clouds threatened another deluge. The air was so wet it felt like breathing through a soaked towel. Sounds that had no visible source started to grow in volume, and none of them were friendly. There was no chittering click of a faeraug or mewling howl of a rakke, yet the blacker it got, the more likely it became that something evil would rise up out of the darkness and attack.

Alwyn immediately chided himself for letting his imagination get the better of him and forced his thoughts to more rational things. Anyone, or anything, watching the riverbank would have a difficult time picking Three Section out of the dusk. N'bhat, the little elfkynan headman, knew this land inside and out and guided them with calm resolve, seemingly unconcerned with the various sounds of life that surrounded them. Yimt, now that he had calmed down, moved like a dwarf looking for a fight, his shatterbow cradled under one arm, a hand resting on the hilt of his drukar. And then there was Kritton. He moved in and out of the shadows as if he was one himself. Alwyn tried and failed to keep him in sight as he trailed the elfkynan. Yimt had ordered them all to remove or blacken anything that would reflect light.