Konowa pushed his senses further, his breath misting in the humid air. He shivered in the sudden cold and grimaced. He felt the presence of five of Her elves on the island, those born like him with a black ear tip. In the not-too-distant past, the tribes of the Hyntaland believed that to be born thus was to be forever tainted. Babies were left in the forest to die, but the Shadow Monarch gathered them to Her, and made them Her own. Konowa had been spared that, instead having his left ear tip shorn off in an act of defiance.

In his darkest thoughts Konowa wondered what his life would have been like if he, too, had been abandoned to die, then “saved” by the Shadow Monarch. Would he now be like the elves he was about to kill, a crazed and twisted thing driven by a madness he didn’t understand?

The Prince had a standing order for one of the Shadow Monarch’s dark elves to be taken alive, but thus far none had been. The elves chose to fight to the death. Konowa’s hand strayed to his own scarred ear, then stopped. The mark alone did not determine an elf’s fate. Konowa was proof enough of that…he hoped.

Konowa came back to himself, but not before pausing. Something else, something he could not identify, was also on the island. It felt ancient. He debated for a moment whether he should search again, then thought better of it as the boats neared the shore. Whatever it was would soon share the same fate as the rest of Her creatures.

The first mewling cry from a rakke set off a chorus of howls on the island. The horizon turned pink as the night gave way to dawn. Konowa smiled. Black flames sparked to life in his hands.

“Fire!”

Sergeant Arkhorn reached up and slapped Konowa’s boot. “You’re standing over the cannon again, Major!”

“To hell with that. Fire!”

Whatever Chayii started to shout was lost as Sergeant Arkhorn touched a flaming linstock to the cannon vent. The six-pounder barked, launching a double load of canister shot.