Ashes of a Black Frost

The new forest of sarka har was starving. The Shadow Monarch’s blood trees drove their roots into the cold sand of the Hasshugeb Expanse and found little to feed on. They flung their branches in ever widening arcs trying to trap anything unlucky enough to stray near. Spawned by the Shadow Monarch’s frost- burnt Silver Wolf Oak, these twisted saplings craved the heavy, bitter ores found deep in the distant mountains of the Hyntaland. Here, however, in this wide-open plain of dunes and disintegrating rock, there was barely enough to keep them alive. They took what they could from anything living, but there were not enough humans in this sparsely populated land to satisfy their hunger. Rakkes and dark elves roamed between their trunks and would have been easy hunting, but Her Emissary had forbidden such feeding, and they had no choice but to obey its order.

They needed other prey.

A hint of metal tantalized them to the south. They had no idea it was called Suhundam’s Hill, or that elves from Her land now lived there, only that they sensed the great upthrust of rock in the desert floor through vibrations received in their roots. The rock and what lived there promised them ore and blood and something else. There was a darkness there that spoke to them in a language they understood, but how to get to it? The power of the returned Star, the Jewel of the Desert, kept them at bay, hemming them in along the northern coast of the Expanse.

As their need grew, so did their frenzy. Again and again, the sarka har flung their roots forward in an effort to seek purchase in the freezing sand and move south. All the while, more sarka har sprang forth from the ground behind the tree line that marked the edge of the Shadow Monarch’s influence and the beginning of the land now under the protection of the returned Star. Black, gnarled roots stabbed again and again like clawing fingers into the crust of snow over the desert floor in an effort to get to the rock. They scrabbled at the ground in desperation. Trunks shattered and roots snapped and sheared off in the growing violence, but no matter how hard they tried, they could go no further south.

Rakkes and dark elves began to fall to the flailing limbs. A limb skewered a rakke in the chest, the beast’s howl of pain cut short as it was torn apart by others joining the feast. A dark elf tilted its head, staring with unblinking eyes at a sight it knew should not be. It continued to stare even after a branch scythed its head off and sent it tumbling to the frozen earth.

When no blast of frost fire struck down the trees, more began to search for food. The screaming didn’t last long. When the last of the Shadow Monarch’s creatures had been slaughtered within the forest, the sarka har thrashed the air in search of more. Their appetite was whet; now they needed to sate it.

Unable to move forward because of the power of the Star, the sarka har did what they knew best. The ground was soft here, not like the mountain of Her realm.

The digging would be easy.

Roots burrowed down through the sand, no longer questing for food, but for power. They found fault lines and hairline cracks in the deep bedrock and worked their way in, prying deeper into the darkness. The ground above shook. Cracks opened up in the desert floor, swallowing dozens of sarka har into its black depths. Yet Her forest was relentless, pushing its roots ever deeper. When it seemed that their search would be fruitless, a lone sarka har found disturbed rock in a channel running from the surface. Its roots wormed into the passage and followed it down. Whenever the passage had been dug, it had been filled in again millennia ago. Nothing had been down this far in a very long time.

Other sarka har followed, and soon the passage was filled with writhing, pulsing roots. Only the Shadow Monarch’s Silver Wolf Oak had plunged its roots this deep before. The sarka har knew only instinct, and instinct told them there was great power down here.

Sand crackled underfoot as Konowa came to a halt five yards away from Private Renwar. Only then did he realize he hadn’t given the regiment the order to halt. He half-expected to see them march right past him, but they came to a smooth stop two yards behind him. Konowa didn’t need to turn around to see it; he heard it as every right boot slammed down at exactly the same time.

Konowa forced himself to release his grip on his saber. He casually adjusted the hem of his jacket while taking care to look directly at Private Renwar. I’ll be damned if I’ll speak first, he thought.

Silence cocooned the tableau. Snow swirled everywhere, piling in drifts a foot high, but in the space around Private Renwar not a single snowflake fell.

Konowa forced himself to look past Renwar to the shades of the dead. He squinted as if looking into the sun. Their anguish was growing stronger with every passing day. It flowed out from them with an intensity that caught Konowa in its glare and wouldn’t let go.

He easily recognized Regimental Sergeant Major Lorian sitting astride the warhorse Zwindarra, the pair of them felled at the battle of Luuguth Jor. Konowa hadn’t considered before now that the horse obviously hadn’t taken the oath, but Lorian had talked about the bond between a cavalryman and his horse. Tragically, the bond must have been strong enough to carry over into death, dooming the horse to a fate it had no hope of understanding. And there was one-eyed Private Meri Fwynd, the patch still covering his lost eye. Their forms shimmered as if black flames made up their bodies. Konowa couldn’t shake the feeling that he was peering into the abyss. Each shade appeared darker at its core, as if a bottomless pit now replaced each dead man’s soul. Konowa shuddered at the thought and banished it from his mind. He took a moment to acknowledge each dead face, fearing to see the dwarf among them, but no shade of the salty sergeant appeared. Konowa wished he could feel relieved, but he suspected the white fire of Kaman Rhal had taken Yimt. Private Kester Harkon’s shade never rejoined the regiment, and it seemed Sergeant Arkhorn’s now shared his fate. Maybe, Konowa allowed, it was a blessing. At least those two weren’t condemned to suffer in eternal service.

Konowa ignored the coursing flood of pent-up energy inside him and pushed the frost fire back down. He wouldn’t be ruled by emotions. He knew that with all eyes on him, he had to keep his composure. He was an officer in the Calahrian Army, and standing before him was a private in his regiment. If they were buried in snow a mile deep, he would wait for Renwar to salute.

Private Alwyn Renwar continued to stand and stare. His gray eyes appeared depthless and cast his face in a deathly pallor, but the power that resided behind them was unmistakable. Konowa would have shivered if his body had been any warmer.

Somewhere behind Konowa, a ramrod began to slide out of its brass rings. The sound of metal on metal rang like crystal. A soldier was preparing to load a shot.

Renwar’s eyes never flickered, but Konowa felt the communication between the private and the shades. Though it didn’t seem possible, the air turned colder and every lungful stung as if filled with tiny razors.

Movement to Konowa’s left drew both his and Renwar’s gaze. Rallie stood off to the side, her quill in one hand and a large scroll of paper in the other. At first Konowa thought she was scratching her head, then realized it was a gesture aimed at Renwar. The private looked back to Konowa. Slowly, as if trying to remember something from a very distant past, he stood to attention and raised his right hand in salute. It wasn’t parade ground sharp, but for here and now it was enough.

More surprisingly and definitely unnerving, the shades followed suit.

Konowa didn’t fool himself that the dead saw him as their leader anymore, but they were clearly following the lead of Renwar, and he was still a living member of the regiment Konowa commanded-the Prince notwithstanding.

Konowa waited three beats, enjoying the building tension because now it was his to control, then returned the salute. The air warmed as a collective sigh passed among the soldiers.

“Right,” Konowa said, taking his time to exude a calm he didn’t feel. “Private Renwar, I’ll need you and the lads there to form up and follow me. We’re heading due north for the coast.” He raised his voice and shifted weight from one boot to another in a studied act of nonchalance. “These Stars are going to keep dropping from here to hell. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t plan on spending the rest of my life, living or dead, tracking them down one by one. It’s time we took this fight to its home, and that’s the Shadow Monarch’s mountain.”

The cheer that greeted this pronouncement was hardly boisterous, but it had a flinty edge to it that filled Konowa with hope. The regiment was still with him. . or at least those living were.

“You ask a lot,” Private Renwar said in his new role as spokesman of the shades. He spoke quietly and carefully, sounding more like the young soldier Konowa knew. Konowa chose to view it as a positive sign even if the