A Darkness Forged in Fire by Chris (chris R.) Evans

meant anything to him.
    Gwyn needed to know more. "And how is it you came to have its head while still retaining your own?" He motioned for an elfkynan to place the haversack on the floor beside him and mop up the mess.
    "I personally ordered my men to be on the watch for anything peculiar tonight, your grace. I felt something wasn't
right."
    The Viceroy smiled, an act without any intent to put the elf at ease.
"Elves and their senses. It's like having bloodhounds, and house-trained at that," he said, peering down at the floor by the elf's boots as if to verify his own statement.
    "Sir," the elf said, his cheeks coloring.
    The Viceroy smiled. Elves were rare in the army, rarer still in the days since the Iron Elves were disbanded. This one was clearly a remnant of that disgraced horde. He wore his shako set at just enough of an angle that it marked him a veteran of more than one campaign, but not so tilted that it would catch the ire of an officer. It almost served to hide the fact that the point of one ear was missing, another telltale mark of a former Iron Elf. Seven wound stripes were sewn above the cuff of his left sleeve, a rarity among the cannon fodder they assigned to the Trading Company—typically the bastion of drunkards, fools, and cowards.
    Gwyn was certain the elf before him was none of those. No, he was something far more dangerous.
    The only other obvious flaw was an irregular dark band that ran the full way around the left sleeve of his uniform.
"That dark mark, there, on your coat, what's that?"
    "Just a stain," the elf said, his eyes looking everywhere but at the Viceroy.
    Gwyn suppressed a smile. "Actually, it looks to me
like a patch was once sewn there, a very specific patch, I think, one of leaves,
if I had to take a guess. Tell me, Kritton…is it?"
    "Sir," the elf said, refusing to take the bait.
    "Corporal, what unit were you with before joining the company? A wizard's assistant perhaps, or a scout? Hmmm, no, you carry a musket so you certainly aren't
a pureblood. No self-respecting elf would carry metal, would they?"
    The elf's body grew even more rigid, but his voice remained neutral.
"Regular light infantry, sir."
    "Come now, Corporal," the Viceroy said, enjoying himself immensely,
"the army spends a great deal of time and money instilling pride in one's regiment. Are you saying you don't
remember which one?"
    "The Iron Elves, sir."
    "Ah, the shamed regiment," Gwyn said triumphantly.
"Must have been a terrible blow, having the regiment dishonored like that. Your
commanding officer turning out to be a traitor to the Empire. Cast all elves in
a rather poor light."
    "Sir," the corporal said, clearly restraining himself.
    "Quite," Gwyn said, suddenly growing tired of the sport. He had bigger fish to fry tonight.
"Job well done, Corporal. I'll make sure to circulate a note regarding it
tomorrow, might help your officers see you in a better light. Dismissed."
    The corporal threw a parade-ground salute at Gwyn, then wheeled about and marched away, forcing several elfkynan to scramble out of his path.
    Gwyn raised his cup to his lips but stopped short of drinking, considering how he might use this latest incident to his advantage. The mind of the masses was a simple thing to manipulate. Play to their beliefs, invoke their various gods and deities, then vanquish their foes, real or imagined, and claim righteous benediction from said god or spirit and reap the rewards.
    "It's all too easy, isn't it?" he said out loud. The table shimmered in the lanterns' glow in reply. He brought the cup to his lips and stopped in horror. Bits of gore from the haversack floated in the tea. A sly one. He might have a use for this elf yet. He was debating whether to have him called back when the sound of boots echoed off the ruined walls of the palace.
    "Ah, the popinjay has a new roost. Interesting aroma, Viceroy," the Duke of Rakestraw said, striding into the light.
    Red hair fluttered around his head like