Konowa nodded as he looked at the other soldiers. “Same goes for all of you. Eyes wide, mouths shut, and ears on swivels. If all goes well we’ll find the place empty, but we might not.”
“It could be your elves are still there, too,” one of the other soldiers said.
It was a thought that Konowa was doing his best to banish from his mind. For reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of, he hoped his elves weren’t up there. Now that he’d come this far in search of them, he wasn’t ready to see them again.
“Probably have a nice fire going, maybe even a hunk of meat roasting on a spit. Wait, do elves eat meat?” a soldier asked. His voice squeaked, and Konowa doubted the lad was a day over eighteen.
Pimmer turned as if preparing a long sermon on the dietary habits of elves, but Konowa growled and the man simply adjusted his saber and kept his mouth shut.
He turned back to the map and his face brightened immediately. “Private Feylan, the first three hundred steps appear to be clear of any dangers, but the three hundred and first might put a cramp in your plans for a bridge of your own.”
“Can you tell what it is?” Feylan asked. Konowa admired the way his voice barely shook. Maybe the private
Pimmer shook his head, bringing the map in closer until his nose was almost pressed against it. “Could be any number of nasty things, I’m afraid. Won’t know for sure until we get up there and have a look around. I would suggest you pay close attention to your count as we ascend.”
Konowa could tell by the look on Feylan’s face that his confidence was waning.
“Just count quietly to yourself and take it slow,” Konowa said to him, giving him a wink. “We’ll be doing the same just to be safe. When you get over two hundred stop where you are and we’ll check the map again. Just to be sure,” he said, looking over at Pimmer who was now turning the map upside down.
“What? Oh, yes, always wise to measure twice and cut once,” Pimmer said, then his mouth dropped open. “Goodness, that’s not offensive to you, is it, what with the inference about cutting wood?”
“Viceroy, when it comes to trees, I say cut twice and to hell with measuring.”
Pimmer started to smile, then stopped and decided to look down at his map again. After a moment he gave it a quarter turn. “Ah, that’s better. Yes, now it’s making sense.”
Konowa lowered his voice as he tilted his head to get Feylan to lean in. “On second thought, stop when you get to a hundred steps.”
SIXTEEN
The creature raged at the scudding clouds driven before an unceasing wind. The sky churned gray and black, echoing the chaotic thoughts in its mind. It leaned into the wind, heedless of the metallic snow scouring the desert floor like an army of teeth. The rakkes, their bloodlust whetted to a shrieking frenzy after ripping through the caravan, charged forward heedless of the deteriorating weather. With every mile covered more rakkes joined the pack until it appeared that a dark crescent was sweeping all the land bare.
Nothing survived the onslaught.
Not wildlife, not Hasshugeb tribes, and certainly not Her dark elves seeking to end the creature’s existence.
The creature, however, felt no triumph. Insanity swirled in an ever-expanding vortex in its mind. More and more of its being was fragmenting, scattered on winds that no mortal could feel. In its fury at being cheated out of destroying the Iron Elves at the caravan, the creature was tearing itself apart. Only its need for revenge kept it from losing itself entirely. That one crystalline thought fixed and shone in the center of its madness like a diamond.
Suhundam’s Hill.
The Iron Elves.
Major Swift Dragon.
The soldier usurper.
Endlessly it repeated the mantra.
As it did a new, cunning thought began to form. The shades of the dead still aided the Iron Elves. No matter how fierce the rakkes, they were no match for such enemies. . alive.
Frost fire arced and spit across the creature’s body. The snow, stained with black ore, flew to it and began circling around it. A whirling storm of thick sheets of metal ice bands formed, each one rotating faster and faster. The earth cracked and buckled beneath its feet. Rakkes screamed and ran.
A high-pitched shriek rose above the siren wail of the spinning metal ice as the pull of circling bands began to tighten their orbits until they were cutting into what remained of its body.
Ribbons of flesh were gouged out of it like a plow cutting through loam. Each slice was a new exploration of suffering. Bone chipped and disintegrated while blood misted and crystallized, then fractured into ever smaller pieces.
It kept moving even as its body and mind were honed down to a razor thin existence. It drew more of the storm toward it until it vanished entirely in a maelstrom of gale force winds. For a moment, it was only energy, spinning itself tighter and tighter until the pressure became too much.
The wind died.
Everything went silent.
The spinning stopped.
The explosion released energy and agony. The bands of metal ice fractured, scything the air for hundreds of yards in every direction. Bits of the creature stained the shards.
Rakkes vaporized in a hail of ice and metal. Bodies flew apart, sliced and cleaved so minutely that it was impossible to tell what they had once been.
A remnant of the creature coalesced in the center of the blast. A cold, dark spinning core of black energy. It reached out with its mind, finding pieces of itself all around. It called to them, and shades of dead rakkes by the hundreds answered the call.
The surviving rakkes picked up their pace, their bloodlust unabated. The shades of the dead rakkes flowed between this plane and the next.
They were the creature’s revenge.
The creature would have smiled if it still knew how.
It had transformed itself. It had taken its pain and agony and multiplied it hundreds of times over.
Finally, after decades of servitude, it had an army to call its own.
Konowa rubbed his right shin and climbed back to his feet, waving for Private Feylan to continue. The soldier was moving quicker up the rocky path than Konowa expected. The footing was treacherous as every rise was slicked with ice, as Konowa’s shinbone could attest. Worse, no two were quite the same, so he couldn’t find a comfortable rhythm. Whoever had hacked the steps out of the rock had done so quickly and with little care or concern for craftsman-ship. The more Konowa thought about it the more he wondered about the likelihood of there being any booby traps at all. Considering the condition of the steps he doubted the workers would have had the time or the skill to set anything more dangerous than the uneven steps themselves.
“That’s a hundred, Major,” Private Feylan whispered. He stood just a yard ahead of Konowa, one boot resting on the step above, his musket held at the ready. Snow swirled above their heads providing a pale, reflected light tinged with the blue of the returned Jewel of the Desert. It made everything feel even colder, which was quite a feat.
Konowa nodded, hiding his chagrin. He’d been so busy trying to navigate the winding path without breaking a bone he’d lost count. He turned and looked at the Viceroy, who had the map out and held at what appeared to be a new angle.
“Problem?” Konowa asked.
“Wrinkle is more like it. I can’t quite make out a letter here, and I suspect it’s rather important. No matter, we’re good until the three hundred and first step. Of that I’m almost positive.”
Konowa looked back up at Feylan, whose eyes grew considerably wider. Konowa offered him a tired smile.
