response wasn’t. He decided to bull ahead.
“I’m not asking, Private, but even if I were, I’m not asking any more of you than I am of myself or the rest of the regiment,” Konowa said, taking a couple of steps to turn around and take in the assembled troops. They were no longer the shiny rascals of the Elfkynan campaign. The marching, the fighting, and above all the oath, were taking a fearsome toll. The once tall winged shakos now had a crumpled, weathered look about them. Many wings had shed so many feathers that it was more accurate to describe their headgear as plucked. The original velvety sheen of their Calahrian silver-green jackets was faded, ripped, patched, bloodied, and loose-fitting. Konowa dared look in their eyes, fearing the worst and feeling his heart swell when they met his gaze. There was strength there yet. They were grouped tightly together, shoulder to shoulder, each holding his musket in both hands. Many had attached their bayonet though no bare metal showed signs of frost fire.
“Every last man here, and Rallie, too, knows this has to end, and it can only end one way, and in one place. That means heading north and setting sail for the Hyntaland. Every hour we stand here is an hour She grows stronger and our mission becomes that much more difficult.”
Renwar stared, his eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts. The shades around him, however, began to fade. Konowa felt the unnatural cold of the oath and Her power falling away, to be replaced by the biting wind driving sand and snow before it. Finally, Private Renwar spoke.
“She knows this and will be waiting. She is. . not pleased. Her Emissary yet lives and marshals Her forces,” he said, his gray eyes straying briefly to where Her forest lay in wait beyond the snow.
Konowa silently cursed. Viceroys were clearly proving to be the bane of his existence. The last two appointed to oversee the Protectorate of Greater Elfkyna had turned out to be in league with the Shadow Monarch, each acting in succession as Her Emissary. Konowa had killed the first, which had set the entire chain of events in motion leading to here and now. Private Renwar had dispatched the second, but they weren’t done with that foul thing yet. Former viceroy Faltinald Gwyn was nothing if not determined. . and as a twisted puppet in the Shadow Monarch’s hands, he had become manically so.
Konowa allowed himself a little bravado. “Not pleased? I should think so. In fact, I imagine She’ll be furious, and maybe a little frightened, too. When the Iron Elves come calling, it doesn’t go unnoticed.” A few grunts of approval from the troops reached Konowa’s ears. They all knew that what he was proposing was tantamount to suicide with only the slimmest chance of survival, but it would be a death on their terms, fighting for something they believed was right. In the life of a soldier, bound by a dark oath or not, that was no small thing.
“As for Her Emissary,” Konowa said, his upper lip curling of its own volition into a sneer, “you seem more than capable of handling it. You flung the creature miles!” More soldiers added their voice to the cheers this time. It
The shades of the dead and their leader did not raise their voices in support. “I did what I had to do. What you ask now is less. . clear. The oath is different now. Those who perish answer to me, not Her. They now have a voice.
The dwarf’s name caught Konowa off guard. For the first time, Konowa fully saw Private Alwyn Renwar for who he was and not as an emissary of the dead before him. “We don’t know what happened to him. I can see that he’s not among the shades and you should know that no one found his body. He’s the toughest bugger in this army. If anyone is a survivor, it’s Sergeant Arkhorn.”
“I felt him fall, then nothing more,” Alwyn said.
Konowa sensed morale crumbling as the regiment pondered the loss of the dwarf, and he spoke quickly to rally what spirit in the troops remained. “Arkhorn’s been busted in rank more times in his career than there are one-eyed newts stumbling around a witch’s garden, and he’s climbed right back up the ranks again every time. I’m not about to count him out yet and neither should you. But whatever the case, I know damn well he’d be placing one very large boot up each and every one of your backsides if he thought for a moment any of you were going to give up, and that includes the Darkly Departed.” Konowa looked around and let a grin creep across his face. “I don’t know how, but I’m sure he’d find a way to kick a shadow. And with good reason. As long as the Shadow Monarch lives the oath will never be broken. We’re tied to Her and She to us. But remember this: Her power, however dark and unwise its origins, is ours to use as well. And that’s what we’re going to do. Our dead aren’t at rest, and Her
Konowa caught motion out of the corner of his eye and turned. A small group of six soldiers accompanying Prince Tykkin and Viceroy Alstonfar were marching toward them from the direction of the library. The Prince led the way, though his gait suggested a man leaving the pub after a few stiff drinks.
The group came to a stop right between Konowa and the Iron Elves on one side and Private Renwar and the shades of the dead on the other. The Prince looked down at his boots, shuffling them like a child. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders, all the while muttering to himself “It’s gone, it’s all gone.” The smell of smoke wafted off the Prince and the knees of his trousers were black with soot. He’d been down in the burned-out library sifting through the debris since the battle ended. Konowa realized with some surprise that he sympathized with the Prince. Both had come here looking for something-Konowa his lost elves, the Prince the Lost Library of Kaman Rhal-and both had come away empty-handed.
Viceroy Alstonfar shambled to a halt beside the Prince and attempted a smile at Konowa from behind a huge pile of scrolls clutched tightly against his substantial stomach.
The Prince turned, and catching Konowa off guard as much as anyone else, motioned to a couple of soldiers to help the diplomat. The Viceroy stood up gratefully and nodded his thanks as the weight of the sacks was taken from him. Despite the cold, the Viceroy’s face was red from exertion and beaded in sweat. His pastel blue Calahrian Diplomatic Corps uniform, designed to exemplify and project the peaceful intentions of the Empire during stressful negotiations, now suggested much darker intentions. Konowa tried to imagine the reaction of a foreign ambassador if forced to sit across from the now sooty, sweaty, and bloodstained Viceroy and decided this new look would be very effective during peace talks. Small burns from black powder speckled the front of his coat, indicating that at some point in the battle the Viceroy had actually fired a musket. The once glittering array of silver-plated buttons showed gaps in their ranks and those that remained had lost much of their luster. His scabbard, however, was firmly tied to his belt and the hilt of his saber had clearly been polished since the battle ended. Konowa knew without checking that the blade was clean, too. Alstonfar might appear to the world like a wobbly piece of fat ripe for the first bayonet to split him open and spill his guts on the sand, but there was gristle under there, somewhere deep. The coming march across the sand might help reveal more of it.
The soldiers stood to attention as best they could. Konowa looked at Renwar, wondering what the soldier would do. Never once taking his eyes off Konowa, he, too, stood to attention. The sharp bite in the air lost some of its tooth. The shades of the dead then faded until Konowa couldn’t tell a shadow from a swirling patch of snow.
Konowa saluted and Prince Tykkin returned it without fanfare and absently waved the men to stand at ease as he brought his hand back down. Konowa expected him to begin speaking, or possibly yelling, but instead the Prince began to fiddle with his uniform, worrying at a dangling piece of embroidered cord hanging from his lapel. He then reached up to straighten a cockeyed epaulette on his shoulder, slowly spinning in a complete circle like a dog chasing its tail. As he did so every soldier couldn’t help but see the left sleeve of his jacket. A large tear ran from the cuff up to the outside of the elbow, revealing a blood-soaked bandage underneath. The Prince-future ruler of the Calahrian Empire-had been in battle, and not on the periphery.
Konowa fought a battle within himself between disgust and admiration and was pleased that admiration won. The Prince, however reluctantly and by sheer misadventure, was becoming a leader of men. The gilded popinjay who grew up on a diet of privilege and arrogance had run stride for stride with the regiment and had not flinched as the Iron Elves smashed into the enemy. Not having taken part in the Blood Oath, there was no afterlife waiting for the Prince, however horrific that life might be. His death in battle would be finite and forever. Leading the men, Konowa knew, was no more than what the Prince should have done, yet he couldn’t banish the grudging respect with which he now viewed the future king. Konowa was convinced the Prince was still a royal prick of the first order,
