The Runes of Destiny

by Megg Jensen

  Now Rafe and his protégé led a small army of dedicated soldiers back to Agitar.

  “It’s not far now,” Rafe yelled over to Vitagut. “Just over that rise!”

  Vitagut steered his draft horse closer to Rafe’s. “They will not receive me kindly. I’ve never even been to Agitar.”

  “Do as we discussed,” Rafe yelled over the thumping of the horses’ hooves. “Say you’ve come to claim the throne, after King Rafe’s abdication. I will remain your advisor, but in secret. No one must know I’m here or they may try to force me back on the throne.”

  “Is it really such a burden?” Vitagut said.

  Rafe thought back to the happy days, which far outnumbered the difficult ones. He’d enjoyed being king—relished it. His father had been king, too, and Rafe had grown easily into the role. But after producing a child who was bent on destruction, he no longer trusted his own blood. A young, strong orc was what was best for Agitar, not a grizzled, impotent orc whose glory days were long behind him.

  “No, Vitagut, being king of the orcs is the greatest honor. I suspect you will grow to love being king as much as I did.” Rafe reached behind his neck with one hand and pulled up his hood. “We are close enough now that I should not be seen. There are many who would recognize me. From now on, I am but a humble servant.”

  Vitagut nodded once with a curt drop of his chin.

  As Rafe let his horse fall behind those in the lead, confidence swirled in his chest. Vitagut would restore Agitar to power again.

  And Rafe… he would advise from the shadows. Quietly, he would inquire into the fate of his wife and daughter, though he knew, deep down, that they were both dead. He knew his daughter was no longer a threat to him or the throne. But he needed to be sure.

  He pulled his horse over beside Kinlor, one of the spies from Inab who’d accompanied them on their journey. The agreement to set Vitagut on the throne had involved a promise to the governor of Inab that his eyes and ears could operate unhindered in Agitar. It was a strange agreement—Agitar had long served as the capital of the orc cities, unchallenged by the others—but Rafe had felt it was a fair request given what Agitar would gain.

  “You know what to look for when we arrive?” Rafe asked Kinlor.

  Kinlor nodded, a wry smile on his lips. “Though it is not so much as looking, but listening. I have others to do the looking for me.”

  “I understand,” Rafe said. He glanced around, wondering which orcs were there to serve Kinlor rather than Vitagut. He hadn’t asked, nor did he want to know. All of them looked like solid warriors, and he felt confident they would be willing to stand behind Vitagut at the first sign of trouble. Though he doubted anyone in Agitar was looking for a fight.

  “A young orc with a strange birthmark should not be difficult to locate,” Kinlor said, drawing out his words like a snake. “Dead or alive, we will find her. Your wife, however, could prove more difficult.”

  Rafe silently cursed himself. He had always meant to commission a painting of his family, but when Nemia’s birthmark blossomed, he had done everything he could to hide her from prying eyes. And even after he’d replaced her with the daughter of the miner, he couldn’t bring himself to sit for a painting. It felt wrong, even though he knew he was protecting his orcs from evil.

  There were no portraits of his wife. She was a plain orc of plain stock. Nothing about Agamede was noteworthy, which was one reason he loved her so much. Rafe cared little for the female orcs who paraded their strength in front of him as if he would fall to his knees and beg them into his bed. No, he preferred the orc who paid him no mind and cared little for pretense.

  That made Agamede remarkable in her own way—but it wouldn’t assist anyone in locating her by sight. And if she lived, she was too smart to speak of her real identity, as she had no protection after her husband’s presumed death. It was even possible the other orcs might press her into ruling, and Rafe was certain Agamede wouldn’t want that. She always performed her duties as prescribed by the crown, but beyond that, all she wanted was to be a wife and mother.

  Any other orc would have given their right arm for the chance to rule. But not his Agamede.

  Rafe sighed as he edged away from Kinlor. He missed his wife, even though she had chosen their evil daughter over him. Other mothers would have tossed their daughter to the side, perhaps even killed her with their own two hands. Agamede went along with his plan to replace Nemia, but she insisted her daughter remain within arm’s reach. The child became a servant, of sorts, who was always assigned to the throne room so Agamede could see her. To Rafe it was the height of cruelty, and it only served to make Nemia hate them more. To Agamede, it was the compromise that kept her daughter close.

  Agitar loomed ahead of them to the west, the city crumbled into ruins. Not long ago, a flag had flown above the castle, showing their power and authority to whoever rode upon their great city. Now Agitar looked like a ghost town, forgotten to history. The mightiest city in the history of the orc empire had fallen in a single day, to a single beast.

  As he’d escaped, Rafe witnessed the dragon fly over the city. He wasn’t sure if it was there to help or do more damage. He hadn’t stayed to find out. Reaching Inab and finding a new king for his orcs was the best choice he could make for his people. As king, it was his responsibility to ensure the might of the orcs continued. It was an oath he took seriously—one he would never, ever renege on. No matter the personal cost.

  Chapter 6

  Nemia snuck into the ruined castle at nightfall, a cloak draping her body and a voluminous hood to hide her face. Skulking in the shadows, she checked around every corner before scurrying across the moonlit streets. It was unlikely anyone else was in the city so late at night; the dangers were too great.

  Rubble blanketed the streets and buildings groaned in the wind, threatening to collapse at any moment. It was the silence that was most eerie. Agitar had always been a bustling city; even at night it vibrated with the calm hum of orcs cozying up to the hearth, sharing stories of the day’s adventures. But now it was as dead as the orcs who had once lived in it.

  Nemia scowled. Those orcs had lost their lives because they betrayed her. She was their rightful ruler, which made it their responsibility to follow her. And yet she’d had to force them with the help of Azlinar’s magic.

  Thinking of her only friend made her stomach turn. A dragon had killed him just as they were about to declare victory over the other orcs. She had nearly secured the throne, only to see it slip through her fingertips at the final moment.

  She knew Tace was behind the dragon attack. Nemia hadn’t seen her, but who else could it be? No one else understood the dragons the way she did, or how to control them. No one but Tace. What Nemia wanted to know was why Tace had gone after Azlinar. The two had never met, yet the dragon had specifically chosen to kill Azlinar, even going so far as to protect Nemia from its flames.

  Not that she wanted the protection. She wanted nothing from the dragon. Or from Tace.

  In fact, as soon as she found a way to reclaim the throne, Tace would be the first to be executed for treason.

  Nemia crept up the stairs and into the castle. Moonlight punched through holes in the ceiling, lighting her path. She made her way to her bedchamber and sank onto her bed.

  The mirror standing cockeyed in the corner of the room sent her reflection staring back at her. Her birthmark was still growing, now covering more than half of her face. If she looked closely enough, she thought she could see it moving, pulsing, slowly overtaking her very essence. She hated it. Not just the way it made her look, but the way it took over her very being and turned her into a monster no one could love. Her own father had disowned her. Her mother had loved another child in her stead. Azlinar was the only one who had ever seen who she truly was inside.

  Nemia imagined the orc she could have been. Tall. Strong. Fierce. Perhaps a piercing through her upper lip. Both males and females would have stumbled over themselves just to be by her side.


  If only she hadn’t been born deformed. Damaged.

  She sighed and turned away from the looking glass.

  She couldn’t bear it any longer. Not long ago she’d retreated underground, planning to live there until she had taken back the city. She believed she would return to this bedchamber not as a princess, but as a queen. The dragon had foiled everything. Killing not only Azlinar but her entire army. For a while, Azlinar’s magic had held their deaths at bay, but once he perished, so had the rest. She’d fled in the confusion—to her bedchamber.

  Only instead of returning victorious, she had returned here a failure.

  Again.

  Just like they’d told her she would be.

  The entire world was against her.

  A sick feeling flowed through her gut. She bent over and retched into her chamber pot, bile stinging her throat. Her veins pulsed with cold.

  She was worthless. No one would ever love her. What was the point of living anymore?

  She lay back on her bed, though it was covered in rubble. Rocks pushed into her skin, pricks of pain dotting all over her body. Gazing at the ceiling, she let her vision relax until everything was blurry.

  It was then that her god appeared before her, burning brightly with his deathly power.

  “Now is not your time,” he said, his voice gravelly. “I am not ready to meet you yet, my child.”

  Nemia wanted to respond, but her lips were frozen shut.

  “Ours is a cult of death. There is no death more honorable than one in battle or in defense of my name. Do not give up. When you see me, come to me. Until then, persevere.”

  Nemia’s eyes snapped open. When had they closed?

  Her heart was pounding. Was it a vision? A dream? Her subconscious trying to save itself?

  Her eyelids fluttered, and her head sank deeper into her pillow. She’d decide later. Right now, she needed sleep.

  Chapter 7

  Maysant looked over the field of bodies. It was still hard to believe what had happened. One moment she was fighting for her life against a horde of diseased orcs who appeared impossible to kill, and the next they all died without even being struck.

  She poked a few with her bow, curious if they would reanimate and spring at her. But no, they were truly dead.

  The dragon had presaged their doom. It flew overhead in the moments before they died. But… it wasn’t the cause of this. Was it? Maysant was pretty sure dragons didn’t have the power to kill a whole swath of bad orcs just by flying over them. Something else had happened. Something more. And she would find out what it was.

  “Msent!”

  Maysant looked over her shoulder at the simple, lumbering human behind her. Her dearest friend. “Yes, Ghrol?”

  “Krzak.” He pointed at Maysant’s brother, Kazrack.

  He was hanging back at the edge of the field, his delicate features twisted into an expression of horror.

  Maysant harrumphed. “Come on, Kazrack! We need to find our way to the living.”

  His eyes bugged. “I can’t possibly step through this.”

  Maysant shrugged. “Okay then. We’ll see you later when you manage to find another way around. Let’s go, Ghrol.”

  Ghrol followed Maysant through the carnage. She counted to three under her breath, then cocked an ear.

  Sure enough, Kazrack’s voice sounded behind her. “Come back, Maysant! I’ll go with you! Just… you mustn’t go so quickly.”

  “We’ll wait for you, brother,” Maysant called. “But we’re not coming back.”

  Kazrack pranced between the bodies on tiptoe, as if he might catch his death from brushing against one of them.

  “Do you want Ghrol to carry you?” Maysant asked with a smirk.

  Kazrack looked at Ghrol. “It would be undignified for the king of the orcs to be carried across a battlefield by a human.”

  Maysant rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re still set on styling yourself as the king of the orcs. I’m sure they can choose someone perfectly capable from their own race. They don’t need elves telling them what to do.”

  “Oh? Then why are you still here?” Kazrack asked.

  She opened her mouth, then closed it before she could answer. It was a valid question. What was she doing in Agitar?

  Maysant had come to the continent of Doros as an escape before she had to take on adult duties in Gailwyn. Since then she’d befriended two humans—losing one to her mother’s charms—and had even made friends among the orcs. Well, only two friends. But it was more orc friends than she’d had back in Gailwyn.

  Actually, maybe it was only one orc friend. She wasn’t sure Nishta even liked her. But she was quite sure Nishta’s sister, Gashta, liked her.

  Well, not quite sure. But… maybe.

  “I’m here to help in any way I can,” she finally said. “It’s what any decent elf would do.”

  Kazrack sniffed haughtily. “Well, I am not a decent elf.”

  Maysant’s jaw dropped.

  “What I mean is,” her brother added quickly, “I am here to lead. If they are wise, they will take my counsel. Now, I suggest we find Dalgron. He’ll tell everyone what a great leader I am.”

  Kazrack pushed ahead of Maysant and Ghrol, resuming his tiptoeing through the dead.

  “Let’s follow the so-called king,” Maysant said to Ghrol.

  “Krzak. King,” Ghrol said with a toothy smile.

  Maysant wished Ghrol understood her sarcasm. Now he would tell anyone who would listen that Kazrack was their king. Her brother would love that.

  She trudged behind Kazrack, letting him think he was leading the way. Which was exactly what she had done their whole lives. In fact, that was one of the main reasons she had come to Doros in the first place—to spend a few months by herself in the forest, away from her brother’s pompous attitude. But now he was here, and she’d reverted back to that girl she had tried to leave behind in Gailwyn. She was even more annoyed with herself than her brother.

  They traversed the field of dead and found their way to Dalgron’s tent. Maysant felt certain that once she saw him, she’d feel better. The general believed in her. He’d given her an assignment during the battle, trusting in her skills as an archer. At least someone saw her for who she was.

  “Ho there, fellow warriors,” Kazrack called as they approached a group huddled near the general’s tent. “It is I, your king!”

  “Krzak king!” Ghrol yelled, happily.

  Kazrack turned and winked at Ghrol. “That’s a good human you found, Maysant.”

  Maysant only just managed to keep her eye-rolling in check.

  “Kazrack.” A beautiful woman with wild red hair, a long blue dress, and huge black boots walked up to him. Her face was grim, her lips pulled tight. “I’m pleased to see you’re alive.”

  Maysant thrust a hand toward the woman, mimicking the traditional way humans greeted one another. “I, I mean we, are here to see Dalgron. I’m Maysant. Kazrack’s sister.”

  “My little sister,” Kazrack said. “You know how younger siblings can be.”

  The woman took Maysant’s hand in hers. “I’m afraid I don’t; I’m an only child. My name is Alyna.”

  “This is Ghrol,” Maysant said. “He’s human, like you.”

  Alyna reached up and smoothed back her wild curls, revealing a set of horns. “I’m no human. I’m a faun.”

  Maysant gasped and forced her hands to stay at her side. She wanted, so much, to reach out and touch Alyna’s horns. She’d never met a faun before. She didn’t even know they were real.

  “And hi, Ghrol, it’s nice to meet you,” Alyna said. She reached for Ghrol’s hand.

  Ghrol shied away, apparently not wanting to touch Alyna at all.

  “He’s simple,” Maysant said, “but don’t discount him. Ghrol is one of the bravest people I’ve ever met—human or elf.”

  “I believe you,” Alyna said.

  And by the twinkle in her eyes, Maysant believed Alyna meant it.


  “Now, where do we stand? What must be done next? Where is Dalgron?” Kazrack asked, clearly growing impatient.

  “Dalgron is dead.” A female orc strode over to them, daggers on her hips and a tiny dragon about her neck. “He was killed by a female orc on a horse who has yet to be identified. She got away in the battle. Our orcs are out searching for her.”

  “Tace,” Kazrack said, with a guarded tone. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Sure.” Tace looked over Maysant. “You’re Kazrack’s sister?”

  Maysant nodded, feeling too nervous to speak around this orc.

  Tace pointed to a human male standing near the tent, deep in conversation with a group of orc warriors. “That’s Ademar. He and I are running this encampment until we can make sense of everything that happened here.”

  “But—” Kazrack began.

  Tace cut him off with a hand in front of his face. “Don’t. Don’t even start with that again. I worked with you when the xarlug attacked, but I will not let you prance in here and pretend you’re something you aren’t. You are not the king of the orcs. You will never be the king of the orcs. You are more than welcome to stay here and help us in any way we deem appropriate, but this ridiculous posturing has to stop. Now.”

  Maysant watched her brother sputter, then give up. Tace didn’t seem at all surprised at Kazrack’s reaction.

  Maysant decided she needed to get to know this orc better.

  “This is Ghrol,” Maysant said to Tace. “He’s my friend.”

  Tace cocked her head at Ghrol and narrowed her eyes. “You look familiar…”

  “Ghrol!” He slammed his meaty fist into his broad chest.

  “It’s nice to meet you.” Tace turned back to Alyna. “That cloud is getting ever closer. We need to be ready when they arrive.”