Ashes of a Black Frost

“That’s not a map. It’s just numbers and lines of gibberish,” Konowa said, reaching out and gently lifting up a corner of the paper to see if the map was on the other side. No, just more scribbling in a language he couldn’t read.

“Not gibberish, Major, it’s Birsooni,” Pimmer said, gently correcting him. “They were a tribe that lived here over a thousand years ago. Nomads wandering the desert wastes. It was known that they created a unique code for oasis, wadis, water cisterns, and other important features, but little more than fragments of their maps have ever been found. And I found a stack of them in the library!” Pimmer said, his voice rising with obvious joy. “Judging by the discoloration, the feel of the fibers, and the color of the ink-goat’s blood if I’m not mistaken-this one is the most recent by a good two hundred years. Not nearly as valuable as the others, I’m afraid, but in this inclement weather I thought it better to risk this specimen and preserve the others. Still, isn’t it marvelous! Here in my hands is proof that the Birsooni navigated by numeric code.”

Marvelous wasn’t the first word that came to Konowa’s mind. “I certainly haven’t seen anything like it, Viceroy. Does it give you any details about Suhundam’s Hill? Any secret paths or tunnels we might use?”

Pimmer smiled as he nodded his head. “I’m almost certain it does, but I can’t make sense of one single bit of the thing.” He winked at Konowa and lowered his voice as he continued. “Actually, calling the Birsooni nomadic is being rather charitable. Seems their maps weren’t quite as useful as they’d intended. The history of the other tribes of the Hasshugeb are filled with accounts of the Birsooni wandering hither and yon. The nastier accounts suggest they simply couldn’t find their way back home, which is the only reason they become nomadic in the first place. One day they set out on a raiding party against another tribe’s caravan and were never seen again. For all we know their descendants are still out there today somewhere, still trying to find their way back to their homeland. Quite poetic, really.”

A metallic-tasting snowflake landed in Konowa’s open mouth, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to close it. How in blazes did the Calabrian Empire survive this long? Everyone in power must have been dropped on their heads at birth.

“So no help for our immediate situation then?” Konowa finally asked, turning slightly to spit out the bitter- tasting snow.

“Definitely not,” Pimmer said, his eyes shining. “I was just showing the sergeant here. It really is a remarkable find. .” He trailed off as he finally seemed to notice Konowa’s expression. “Oh, but not to worry, this map should provide us with everything we’ll need to know,” he said, pulling a small, folded piece of paper from inside his swaddling robes. “It’s Birsooni, too, but the cartographer was more traditional in his approach, to a point.”

Konowa reached out a hand and took the piece of paper without saying a word. He opened it and saw a finely detailed sketch of the fort in plan view. A wide, straight road sloped all the way down from the fort’s one gate on its northern face to the desert floor. It was by far the quickest and easiest way up to the fort, but going that way uninvited would be certain death. Anyone in the fort would have a clear shot the entire way up. What Konowa was looking for was an escape route, something small and hidden. The Grenadier Guards had found one all those years ago, so he knew it had to be there somewhere. He found it lightly traced on the southern exposure. It had far fewer twists and turns and headed straight for the rear of the fort, where it disappeared under the wall. A secret doorway in and out. Perfect.

Less perfect, however, was that parts of the path appeared to have either been erased or never drawn in. There was more gibberish written in the margins, but at least this was something he could work with.

“This should do nicely, thank you,” Konowa said, fighting the sudden desire to hit something, preferably rotund and smiling.

“Think nothing of it,” Pimmer said, his smile suggesting he certainly didn’t. “I hope you weren’t thinking you’d have to walk up to the front gate and knock?”

Not anymore I’m not, Konowa thought, rubbing the back of his sleeve against his mouth. “No, not at all. Well, now that we have this it’s time we were moving. Will the Prince be joining us?”

Pimmer took one last longing look at the Birsooni map then rolled it up, careful to shield it from the wind and snow. “The Prince is indisposed at the moment, but conveys in his absence that you are to take whatever measures necessary to secure the fort.”

A diplomat through and through, Konowa thought, grudgingly admiring the man’s ability to lie with absolute sincerity. So the Prince was still sulking? Konowa found he just didn’t care. He knew what had to be done, and Prince or no Prince, it would be done.

“Very good,” Konowa said, spitting out the last of the bitter-tasting snow and nodding to Pimmer. “I’ll confer with the RSM here and we’ll get moving within the quarter hour. Perhaps you should check on the Prince and make sure he doesn’t do something fool-adventurish and wander off on his own.”

“Not to worry, I left a soldier in charge of his camel this time,” Pimmer said. “I need to be here with you when we reach the fort.”

Konowa had seen this before. Officers that spent their lives behind desks and conference tables get a rare taste of battle-aren’t torn in two by a cannonball-and suddenly they feel alive. The fear and the excitement of being shot at and missed acts like a drug. Suddenly, they understand warfare in a way no one else does, and they are overcome with a fevered need to be in the thick of it. The inevitable outcome is always bloody, definitely for the soldiers who pay the price, and sometimes, happily, for the fool who caused their suffering. Konowa wasn’t about to let that tragedy play itself out here. And it wasn’t just for the sake of the troops. He genuinely liked Pimmer and realized he was the first Viceroy he’d met he didn’t want to kill. Mostly.

“That won’t be possible, Viceroy,” Konowa said, thinking fast. “I’ll need you at the rear with the Prince. If the fort is no longer held by the elves there could now be a Hasshugeb tribe in there. I don’t speak the language, you do. I can’t risk having you out front getting shot before you get a chance to talk.”

“I do make a large target, I’m afraid,” Pimmer said, looking between Konowa and the RSM. Neither one laughed. “But rest assured, Major, it isn’t vainglory that necessitates my being up front with you. It’s a bit more pedestrian this time. Not only am I the only one who can speak the language, I’m the only one who can read it, too. The writing on this map contains details of the path up to the fort not drawn here. The cartographer chose to keep some aspects of the route secret and so instead of drawing them chose to put them down in writing, ensuring only a native would be able to decipher it. Rather clever, actually. Much smarter than the other Birsooni’s attempt I dare say.”

Konowa interrupted before Pimmer could pull the other map back out. “Can’t you just tell me what it says now?”

Pimmer was already shaking his head. “You’d think that, but there was a real mind at work here. Certain details of the path are missing on purpose. The writing that accompanies the map fills in the blanks, but they aren’t simple instructions.

“You see, these lines are riddles. And not just your run-of-the-mill children’s game either, but riddles referencing ancient tribal legends. Absolute genius. I mean, look at this part here,” he said, showing the map to Konowa and Aguom who dutifully looked. “What, for example, would you do when you come to a fork in the path and you read ‘The lamb with wolves’ teeth suckles from the camel on a moonless night?’”

Have another drink was the first thought that entered Konowa’s head, but he kept it to himself. “I’ll admit, I can’t begin to imagine what that means, but does it really matter? I can see the fort from here. We simply have to climb up. With or without the map and its secrets that really shouldn’t be that hard.”

“Except for the booby traps.”

That got Konowa’s attention. Aguom stiffened. Soldiers trained to fight an enemy they could see. Hidden traps though were like snakes lying in tall grass. There was something fundamentally unfair about them, although the enemy of course thought differently. “It says that? What kind of traps?”

Pimmer rubbed his chin in thought. “Well, in this particular case the camel can only refer to Suljak Emyan who was famous for carting about a massive main tent that could be seen for miles in the desert like a great camel’s hump. One moonless night, or so legend has it, his guards made the unfortunate mistake of allowing a Guara assassin into his tent thinking the man was one of the Suljak’s servants. You can guess what happened next,” Pimmer said, making a slashing motion with his hand across his throat.

Konowa offered Pimmer a weak smile. “I’m still not clear how this helps us. What’s the trap?”

“No way to tell from here, but I suspect it will be something that looks innocuous enough but will in fact be quite deadly.”