The Light of Burning Shadows: Book Two of the Iron Elves Page 6

  It did not come.

  There was an audible gasp from among the troops. No frost fire rose where Harkon’s body entered the water. No shade emerged. The air began to warm as the shadows thinned and then vanished. Alwyn traded looks with Yimt. What was this?

  Voices rose and the assembly began to move.

  “Steady on! No one dismissed you,” Yimt bellowed, and order was restored, but only just.

  Whispers raced up and down the ranks.

  “Harkon was the one what got his shadow burned.”

  “They say he screamed for five minutes as it burned his very soul.”

  “Maybe, but what if it broke the oath?”

  There was only the howling of the wind and the keening of a lost elf in reply.

  As the ship sailed on, the mortal remains of the four soldiers sank into the lightless depths. Fish scattered as the bodies plummeted past them. The stitching came loose on the last body, revealing the face of Private Kester Harkon.

  Something large and gray swam up from the depths toward the sinking corpses.

  It came in close to each body in turn, but turned away each time from the first three. When it came in toward Harkon’s body it paused, as if studying the face.

  Harkon’s eyes opened. They turned and saw the creature.

  Harkon’s mouth opened in a scream as water rushed into his lungs. The creature lunged forward and grabbed Harkon’s body between two powerful jaws, and then swam with his corpse back toward the surface, settling just below the waves.

  With the body of Private Kester Harkon firmly clutched in its mouth, the creature began following in the wake of the Black Spike. What remained of the man who was once Kester Harkon screamed silently as it did.

  On the peak of a black mountain, a forest seethed in the cold night air. A drizzling rain fell, turning to sleet. Bolts of lightning ranged down, twisting shadows of already misshapen trees. The trees drew the lightning to them, raising their branches high as if in supplication.

  Another bolt struck, splintering the pitch-black wood of one tree into needle-sharp shrapnel. Metal-colored leaves tore away in the wind to scythe the night air. Frost fire flared in the crowns of the trees and thick ichor oozed from open wounds, staining everything an oily black. The sleet hissed as it hit the ground, forming jagged bits of ice until the entire mountain peak gleamed in the night.

  Underground, the roots of the trees writhed and stabbed into the rock. For every tree lost to lightning, its siblings fed on the power. Cracks on the mountain surface shuddered and ripped farther apart, creating ever-deepening chasms. Primal roars issued from the depths. The roots continued to dig.

  In its need and its rage, Her forest was tearing the mountain apart.

  The Shadow Monarch stood among the trees. The cloak wrapped tightly around Her made it difficult to differentiate between Her and the darkness. No lightning touched down near Her.

  If She felt sympathy for the offspring of Her ryk faur, the Silver Wolf Oak She had bonded with all those centuries before, She did not show it. There was a price to be borne for living in such a cold, barren place—the trees sacrificed themselves to that purpose.

  Far below in the great forest, Wolf Oaks grew straight and true. Down there, their limbs were protected from the lightning by the even-more-massive Silver Wolf Oaks that had grown strong and true, unpolluted by such bitter ground. Here on the mountain, however, this Silver and all its progeny were a twisted thicket of anguish. To exist like this with Her aid was pain beyond comprehension, yet the will to live remained. And so Her forest grew, a desperate union of the Shadow Monarch and Her ryk faur sowing the seeds of madness in ever-widening swathes of black destruction.

  The Shadow Monarch stepped forward into the center of the trees. Branches interlocked in a protective shield above Her, absorbing the lightning while She remained unscathed. She looked down into a pool of ichor that shimmered and revealed the world as it was.

  This world would change.

  Where plains and hills now rustled with tall grass, Her forest would grow. No river, no lake, no road, and no city would remain. The very oceans would thicken with trunks until no ship could pass.

  All would be Hers.

  All would be forest.

  Then there would be power, enough to end the pain. Though She had failed in obtaining the fallen Star in the east, Her will remained intact and the Iron Elves would be Hers. More Stars would fall, and in time She would claim them as Her own. In this, the bond between elf and tree grew stronger as each warped the other in the madness of their everlasting need.

  A hunched shadow crept into the clearing, slipping over ice and rock. Lightning flashed as it neared the Shadow Monarch, revealing it to be a man clothed only in a tattered robe. Large chunks of his skin looked more like the bark of Her trees. His eyes, however, remained wholly human, showing every bit of the fear he felt. Trembling, he inched forward, finally falling on his knees in front of Her and bowing his head.

  She had plans for his fear.

  Faltinald Elkhart Gwyn, recipient of the Order of the Amber Chalice, holder of the Blessed Garter of St. DiWynn, Member of the Royal Society of Thaumaturgy and Science, and until recently, Her Majesty the Queen of Calahr’s Viceroy for the Protectorate of Greater Elfkyna, shook as he kept his head low.

  It was a position he was becoming all too accustomed to since his fortunes had changed.

  Only weeks before, rulers of backward lands throughout the Calahrian Empire knew his name and feared it. He was the power of the Empire personified. When he spoke, it was not with his voice, but with the Queen’s…and Hers. It had been a heady game, serving two thrones. Now, he was a wanted man throughout the Empire, but he doubted anyone would ever get the chance to collect on his reward.

  Lightning scorched the branches just feet above him, setting his teeth chattering. His life, what was left of it, now hinged on the caprice of his only monarch.

  A moment later, another figure emerged from the dark, materializing from nothing with a cold certainty. Unlike Gwyn, this one did not tremble. Its hooded cloak appeared more like that of the Shadow Monarch. There were no eyes to be seen. It, too, bowed before Her, though not as low.

  Gwyn found his mind and body warring with each other as Her Emissary approached. Memories of the torture he had suffered at the cold, dead hands of this monster sent fresh currents of fear coursing through him. Even now, his training as a diplomat told him to show no emotion, but his body was not up to the task. He dug his hands into the ice until they bled, but he could not quell the shaking.

  Her Emissary, an elf from the same tribe as Her, had been like Gwyn once, Viceroy to the Queen of Calahr. And like Gwyn he, too, had chosen the path of serving two masters in the belief that he could find the balance and ride the storm that was growing between these two worlds.

  Both had been brought to ruin by the same despised elf—Konowa Swift Dragon of the Iron Elves.

  Anger almost overcame fear as thoughts of the elf and his friend, the Duke of Rakestraw, ran through Gwyn’s mind. They were the architects of his fall. If there was justice in the world then they both would burn, and then after an agonizing period of suffering, they would be put to death. First, however, he had to survive the Shadow Monarch.

  “My Emissary and my Viceroy come to me in failure.”

  Gwyn gave up trying to control the shaking. He was absolutely terrified at the sound of Her voice. To hear it in person was to know fear unlike any he had ever known. He raised his head, though he did not look directly at Her, and held out his hands. “I…I have failed you, my Queen. I deserve whatever judgment you see fit.”

  The words galled him to say, yet at a certain level he believed them. This was indeed failure, though in it there was opportunity for power. Fear still gripped him in a steel claw, but he spied a way to use it now. He allowed his head to touch the icy ground again.

  The trees crackled as branches flexed, shedding ice as they interlaced themselves above his head. It was a ceiling o
f dangling swords, each hanging by a thread She controlled. Only Her will kept the branches from slicing Gwyn to ribbons.

  The Shadow Monarch remained silent for a long time. Sleet continued to fall. Gwyn knew if nothing else happened, he would still die from simple exposure to the elements.

  After what felt like an eternity, the Shadow Monarch spoke.

  “And you?”

  Her Emissary radiated confidence. He had been arrogant in life and had found little humility in death. Gwyn had once marveled at such power, but now in proximity to Her, he understood its limitations. Her Emissary was a tool, a blunt, heavy weapon. There was no subtlety, no finesse. There was but one path for it to take, but if that path diverged such a weapon no longer had any use. Yes, this was a game Gwyn knew how to play. The question was, did Her Emissary?

  “As you desired, Konowa Swift Dragon is bound by his oath, as are they all. Many have already succumbed and now inhabit the world between. Losing the Star was unavoidable. There was unforeseen interference.”

  “I am aware of her presence.”

  Gwyn marshaled all of his remaining energy to not raise his head in surprise. He was trained to detect the slightest wrong note in an opposing diplomat, and he heard one now. Was that annoyance in Her voice? He refused to believe it could be something more powerful, yet if it weren’t for the fact he was freezing to death, he would have sworn he detected a hint of worry.

  The Silver Wolf Oak shuddered. A branch untangled itself from the forest and came to rest gently on the Shadow Monarch’s shoulder.

  Her Emissary continued as if it heard nothing, which Gwyn suspected was precisely the case.

  “Were it not for the power of the Star, Elfkyna would be yours now. It is strong, but it can be overcome.”

  Gwyn felt Her Emissary’s gaze upon him and knew the accusation that hung in the air. He refused to take the bait. Gwyn had already offered his life to Her, accepting whatever fate She decreed. He would play this hand to the end.

  “My forest in Elfkyna was destroyed. Even now, Konowa hunts them down wherever they grow.”

  “I will stop him.”

  “No. The elves I seek are not yet found.”

  “Then I will find them.”

  “No, you will not.”

  Gwyn felt more than heard Her command. The branch around Her shoulder lashed out. Shards of ice flew in all directions. Gwyn threw up his hands to cover his face. A single brief scream was lost to the sleet. No echo, no reverberation.

  It took a moment for Gwyn to realize the scream wasn’t his, that he was still alive. He lowered his arms and looked up. The body of Her Emissary hung in midair, impaled on the branch. Frost fire raged over it, the flames gouging deeply. The tree flung the body into the waiting branches of its offspring, which set about tearing what was left to shreds.

  The branch slowly returned to the Shadow Monarch, curling itself around Her shoulders. Something wet now glistened on its tip and Gwyn saw that it was a blood-soaked obsidian acorn ripped from the chest of Her Emissary.

  “Rise.”

  Gwyn climbed to his feet, shaking, freezing, unsure of his balance. He dared to look in Her eyes, then found he could not look away.

  “Will you accept my gift?”

  There was but one answer, and Gwyn found voice enough to give it. “Yes, with all my heart.”

  The Shadow Monarch did something then that the former Viceroy of Elfkyna would remember for the rest of his life.

  She smiled.

  The branch of the Silver Wolf Oak uncoiled itself again from around her and snaked its way toward him.

  Slowly.

  “Where he failed you will succeed. You will did my child.”

  Gwyn wasn’t sure he understood.

  The branch inched closer, twisting in the night air.

  “Your…child?” The branch continued to come toward him, as Gwyn’s gaze tore away from Hers. Blood still dripped from the acorn.

  “Look,” she said. The pool of ichor shimmered once more. A vast ocean appeared. A single ship raced ahead of a growing storm. Soldiers were grouped on the deck around four flag-draped bodies. A ceremony was taking place. Gwyn recognized it at once.

  “Konowa Swift Dragon. He is the key. He seeks his brothers, the Iron Elves, and through him you will find the rest of my children and bring them home to me.”

  Gwyn nodded. “I will find the Iron Elves for you. I will bring them home.” As he said this, the pool of ichor flared with frost fire as the bodies of the Iron Elves were consigned to the depths. The black flame rose, then settled down, but deep in the center for one brief moment, a pure white flame burned. The Shadow Monarch said nothing, but the air around them grew colder. He gasped for breath as the freezing air bit into his lungs.

  Shades now stood where only a moment ago the black of night had filled the spaces between the trees. Their forms were hazy, as if uncertain or unwilling to commit further to the darkness around them. Gwyn counted only three.

  “Many have begun the journey already, but there is still a long way to go. Aid me in this, and you will have…my gratitude.”

  Gwyn had no time to ponder what that might mean. He wanted to ask what the white flame meant, but the branch shot forth the rest of the distance, piercing his chest. The force of the impact flung his head forward like a snapped twig. He felt the blood-soaked acorn lodge deep within his heart, and tried to scream as pain blossomed through his body. Just as quickly, the branch withdrew, leaving something new in its place.

  Life as Gwyn knew it ceased. His body collapsed to the ground. Magic thick and raw coursed through him. His wounds froze over and healed as the remnants of his robe fell away in ash and frost fire consumed him.

  When the flames burned out he stood, wrapped in a cloak of night.

  “Bring my children home,” she said, “and yours is the world.”

  “As you wish,” Her Emissary said.

  EIGHT

  The sky turned slate, blackening at the horizon as storm clouds formed in the distance. The cries from a flock of birds fleeing before the coming weather carried farther as the air grew colder. The wind picked up, rushing ahead of the towering clouds, churning everything in its path.

  The three women ignored this, or at least gave no outward sign that they cared the weather was turning. Their attention was fixed solidly on the simmering pot before them. A gust of wind whistled between them, tearing away tendrils of steam long enough to reveal the contents therein. Each leaned closer to look. To their credit, none of them recoiled. A green, glutinous mass bubbled fiercely, giving off an odor quickly borne away by the wind.

  None appeared willing to speak first. Their eyes glistened with tears as they strained to discern something knowable from the contents. The cast-iron vessel hung from a leather strap above a blazing fire attached to a tripod of three muskets. A fire burned fat and orange underneath it, oblivious to the wind, and no sign of fuel could be seen within its flames. More amazingly, the wooden deck of the Black Spike remained uncharred.

  After several more moments of quiet contemplation, Rallie pushed back the hood of her cloak. “Perhaps the honor should go to the eldest among us.” She continued to look down at the pot and so avoided the eyes of the other two women, which now turned to her.

  “And that would be?” Chayii Red Owl asked, the tone in her voice not entirely lost on the wind.

  Visyna looked from Rallie to Chayii and held her tongue. Chayii was elf, and they were known to live incredibly long lives. Rallie, on the other hand, was unlike any human Visyna had ever met. She spoke with a wisdom gained by much experience over a very great expanse of time. They were—by any measure Visyna could see—witches. That should have bonded them together like sisters—each a powerful wielder of magic in her own right, each using her skills to prevent the Shadow Monarch from destroying them all.

  On further thought, perhaps they were too much like sisters.

  “Perhaps you can decide, Visyna,” Chayii said.

  Visyna
knew a trap when she saw it. Chayii had been more or less cordial since their first meeting, but Visyna knew Chayii was aware of the relationship between her and her son, Konowa—no matter how strained and untenable it might currently be. Chayii had yet to express her opinion on the matter, but Visyna was more than convinced she did not approve.

  “Yes, child, do tell,” Rallie said.

  What was it, Visyna wondered, with old witches and their need to play games? Well, three could play as easily as two.

  Without a word, Visyna took a spoon, bent over the pot and scooped out a mouthful. She smiled at both of them as she brought the spoon to her lips, proud of avoiding a no-win situation.

  Then she tasted it.

  Tears welled in Visyna’s eyes and trickled down her cheek, where they dried in the wind. Time ceased as her world constricted to a shining white light exploding behind her eyes. It felt as if the top of her head had been blown off.

  “Well?” Yimt asked. The dwarf stood nervously across from the women. It would be his distinct honor, he had said, to cook for three such fine ladies. Apparently his fellow soldiers were not entirely appreciative of his culinary efforts. He paced a few steps one way, then back again, all the while tugging on his beard.

  Rallie took her spoon and dipped it into the pot, with Chayii following suit. Each looked at Visyna, but she was no help, her nostrils flaring and her cheeks flushing pink. With a nod to each other, they both tasted Yimt’s concoction.

  For what seemed an eternity there was only the sound of the wind and the crashing of waves as the ship made all haste to outpace the storm. Yimt tugged so hard on his beard that he pulled several strands of hair out.

  Visyna found her voice first.

  “What…what do you call this?”

  “It’s me old mum’s recipe for rat dragon. She got it from her mum and so on down the line.” He stopped tugging his beard and started waving his hand around. “I realize it’s in an iron pot and that kind of thing don’t sit right with you fey folk, so maybe it doesn’t taste quite the way it should…”