by Megg Jensen
The ghost drifted over him, settling atop him like an icy blanket.
So cold. His heart slowed. His thoughts ceased. His blood turned to ice, and he let out one final mist of air.
Chapter 45
Maysant lunged, desperate to get to her brother before the ghost, but someone jumped in front of her horse. The draft horse bucked, throwing Maysant from her saddle and into familiar arms.
“Ghrol!”
She struggled to free herself from his grasp, but the human was ridiculously strong, and she was only a twig of an elf. She could do nothing but look on helplessly as the ghost sucked the life from her brother right in front of her eyes.
“Kazrack…” His name was no more than a spilling from her lips.
Sobs overtook her. If not for Ghrol she would have jumped off the draft horse and run to Kazrack. That probably would have resulted in her death. The human had saved her. But now she was forced to live on, while her brother was gone.
Vitagut stopped his horse at her side. “Maysant, are you okay? And Ghrol, where did you come from?”
Maysant looked up at Ghrol through tearful eyes. “I once thought I saved Ghrol, but instead he keeps saving me.”
“Msent, frnd.” Ghrol said, holding her tightly in his arms.
I’m sorry, Maysant. Your brother was…” Vitagut’s voice trailed off.
She couldn’t help but smile. Describing Kazrack in positive terms was difficult for most. Even for her, sometimes. But he had always been her brother.
“Bder?” Ghrol pointed at Kazrack, his breath enveloping Maysant.
She sat up straighter. “Bder? Does that mean brother?”
Tears bubbled at the corners of Ghrol’s eyes as his sniffled.
“This whole time you’ve been trying to tell me you’re missing your brother?”
Maysant had long ago given up trying to understand Ghrol’s nonsense words, thinking they were just random vocalizations. But if he’d actually been asking for his brother…
She remembered how agitated he’d been at any mention of Brax, the head of the human army who’d been willing to forsake his own people to stand with the orcs. Was it possible?
“Was Brax your brother?” she asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.
“Bder. Bder. Bder.” Ghrol repeated the word as if it would make Brax materialize next to them.
Maysant felt sick. Brax had died at the Fifth Sanctum. She didn’t know the details, but she’d been told that much by Alyna, who’d heard it from Ademar.
“We’ve both lost our brothers, haven’t we?”
“Bder,” he said again.
“I’m so sorry, Ghrol.” Maysant wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “We have each other.”
“Msent.” Ghrol’s lower lip quivered.
Vitagut cleared his throat. “Maysant, I am sorry for your loss, but we need to focus on what lies ahead. The ghosts are keeping us from getting near Drothu. We must put our plan into action. It’s now or never.”
Before leaving Inab, they’d developed a plan to defeat the ghosts. They knew they could not hurt them with steel; it only passed through them. No, the magic of Yaghra was their only hope. Yaghra and her ancient, almost forgotten knowledge. She recalled a time long ago when an evil spirit plagued her great-grandmother. Her great-grandmother released herself from this evil spirit by grinding up a special mixture of herbs and flowers and sprinkling them over the spirit’s earthly grave while repeating an incantation.
Yaghra knew that mixture and that incantation. Her great-grandmother had passed it down to her children, and her children’s children, so it would never be forgotten, as Yaghra had passed it to her descendants, in the event it would be needed.
It was needed now.
Because if it didn’t work… they had no other ideas. They would just have to give up Agitar to the ghosts. And hope they remained there.
“Bder,” Ghrol said once more. His gaze was still fixed on Kazrack’s body.
“Yes, brother.” Maysant rested a hand on Ghrol’s arm. “Maybe my brother and your brother are together. I know we have different traditions for what happens after death, but perhaps we are all one and the same.”
Tears streamed down Ghrol’s face. Maysant wished she could do something to console him.
“Please, Maysant.” Vitagut’s impatience showed in his tight jaw. “If you cannot continue, I must go on without you. We have to get the shaman to the burial mound. I don’t want to leave you behind, but if you feel it’s necessary to watch over your brother’s body, I understand. Neither of you are orcs. You owe us nothing.”
“No,” Maysant said. “I came with you for a reason. If we save the orcs, we save everyone.”
Vitagut laughed. “I’ve never heard an elf say such a thing. I was under the impression you cared little for anyone other than your own kind.” His head tilted to the side. “Perhaps there is more to you than I first thought.” And to Maysant’s surprise, he smiled. It was the first time she’d seen him do anything other than glower. Perhaps there was more to him, too.
Maysant whistled, and her horse returned to her side. She and Grhol both mounted. “Lead the way,” she said, doing her best to sound confident. If she couldn’t be confident, then she would at least fake it. Maybe it would eventually become real.
They rode hard to catch up with the rest of the army. But the ghost that had killed Kazrack took an immediate interest. Its vacant eyes bored into Maysant, and it moved toward them with surprising speed.
“Faster!” Vitagut yelled, his horse charging ahead.
Maysant and Ghrol both kicked their horse with their heels. Their horse neighed and tossed its head, riding harder with each step. But still the ghost gained on them.
Maysant knew they couldn’t outrun it.
“It wants me,” she cried to Vitagut. “Save yourself! They need you!”
“No!” he yelled back, turning his horse back toward them.
Maysant turned her head to Ghrol, the wind lashing her hair at her face. “Let it take me, Ghrol. Save yourself. You can fight. I’m useless here. My bow and arrows won’t hurt anyone on this battlefield. You have a chance.”
“Msent.” The word came out like a wolf’s keen. “Love Msent. Best frnd.”
Before Maysant could respond, Ghrol lifted her off the saddle with one arm. With a grunt, he heaved her into the air, throwing her toward Vitagut.
Maysant screamed, her fingers clawing at the air for purchase. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sacrifice himself. She wanted it to be her.
Vitagut plucked her from midair and settled her in front of him.
“He can’t do this!” Maysant shouted. “He can’t!” She cursed her small size, her inability to fight back.
“He’s already chosen.”
As Vitagut charged on, Maysant looked back at Ghrol, who had turned his horse toward the ghost. It descended on him, sucking his life away in an instant.
Maysant wept into Vitagut’s chest. Not both Kazrack and Ghrol. It was too much.
“Ghrol died an honorable death,” Vitagut said.
His words did little to comfort her. What they did was forge her heart into steel. An unwavering resolve to end this war. She would not let Ghrol’s death be in vain.
“We must do everything we can so no one else dies,” Maysant said, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Then we go onward. Together.”
And somehow, she felt his words were a promise.
Chapter 46
Vitagut’s arm wrapped around Maysant’s slight frame, holding her as tight as he could without crushing her. Gentleness didn’t come naturally to him. As a young orc, he’d frequently pushed himself to the limit, always striving to be more than he was. But this elf had just watched first her brother, then her friend, die before her. She needed comfort, which was the opposite of everything he’d ever trained for. It didn’t feel natural.
Then again, nothing about the last few weeks was normal. He’d been forced to co
nfront everything he’d ever known—including the worship of his own god. His entire life, he’d unquestioningly followed the tenets of his religions; he’d strived for an honorable death that would lead to his union with Drothu. But now the god of the orcs stood before him, an impressive being as high as the tallest ramparts of Agitar and as well muscled as Vitagut himself, and yet… Vitagut felt only sickness in his gut. What was the purpose of the death and destruction his god wrought? None of these deaths were honorable. It went against everything he’d been taught.
A cry sounded from up ahead. His father. They’d made it to the burial mound.
“Hold tight,” he told Maysant as he kicked the draft horse to go even faster.
She only nodded softly. That was not the Maysant he’d come to know. Since the moment he’d met the elven princess, she’d shown nothing but bravado. Still, everyone had a limit, and it appeared she’d met hers.
Vitagut promised himself that he would take care of her during this battle. He was responsible for everyone under his command, but somehow, he felt a particular responsibility to this brave elf who was so soft and fragile.
The horse’s hooves pounded the prairie grass flat as they surged past the rest of the army. This was a powerful beast, one of Inab’s best, but it was already exhausted from the night’s travel, and panted with the effort. Vitagut silently thanked the horse. He would retire it as soon as this battle was won.
For this battle would be won. He had to believe that. Without that hope, there was no reason to fight.
“Soldiers! Protect the way for us!” Vitagut shouted to his fellow orcs.
His orcs had been trained to follow orders without question. Which was why the behavior of his army rocked him to his core. Half of them leapt from their mounts and fell to their knees, arms out toward Drothu in supplication, praying to their god. At first Vitagut heard only a cacophony of jumbled words, but soon their pleas synced up into a recognizable chant.
“I can’t believe this,” Vitagut muttered.
“You shouldn’t be surprised,” Maysant said, her voice regaining some of its strength. “This is what they’ve been preparing for their entire lives. Their god is here to take them to the Nether. Isn’t this what every orc wants?” She turned in the saddle, her wide eyes staring up at him.
Her simple act of brushing up against him spurred thoughts he’d only ever had for female orcs. Not beings this delicate.
Vitagut pushed those thoughts to the side. “They’re praying for their deaths,” he growled.
“Precisely. Isn’t that what all orcs want? Why don’t you want it?”
Her damn lips were pink and soft, driving him crazy. What he wanted, what he really, really wanted, mattered little at this moment. Only survival. And then, only then, could he think straight.
“I came here to save Agitar, and damn it, that’s what I’m going to do.” He thrust his shoulders back, looking over her fine blond hair toward the burial mound.
He spurred the horse onward, and they pulled up in front of his father.
“The soldiers—” Vitagut started.
His father cut him off. “They have made their choice. But some still stand with us.”
Vitagut looked back. A band of ghosts had broken free from the ring surrounding Drothu to drift toward the kneeling orcs. He wondered whether they intended to possess, or to kill. But his father was right: not all of the orcs had stopped to pray. Even now many of them ran to protect the shaman.
Now all their hopes were pinned on her.
Yaghra was kneeling before the burial mound. With wrinkled, shaking hands, she pulled from her bag a variety of herbs. She laid them before her in a fan shape.
“I need a torch,” she cawed in a scraggly voice.
Vitagut’s father motioned for a torchbearer to join them. A young orc ran to his side, his knees knocking as he stole glances at Drothu.
“Thank you.” Vitagut’s father clapped the young orc on his shoulder, then bent down to light the shaman’s small smudging stick.
Yaghra muttered words under her breath from an ancient orc dialect. Vitagut knew only a word here or there, but what he heard made him sick. She was invoking spirits and calling upon demons that he’d only heard of as a child. A child who cowered on his mother’s knee when she explained why he needed to follow the way of Drothu. She’d scared him into religion, as so many other orc parents had.
And he had to admit, Drothu had not disappointed.
But Vitagut now had a feeling there was far more to the stories than he’d been told. That thing behind him was not a creature to be worshiped, but one to be defeated.
Smoke rose from the shaman’s herbs, and she leaned in and inhaled the vapors through her nose. Suddenly a keening fell from her lips, and blood trickled from the corners of her eyes.
Maysant gasped and pressed herself against his chest. He regulated his breathing, not letting her proximity affect him. Not only would it embarrass him, it would horrify her. They were barely acquaintances, not even friends. It was wrong and highly inappropriate.
The smoke from the herbs floated into the sky, mirroring the shapes of the ghosts… and attracting their attention. Spirits began to peel away from the circle surrounding Drothu and turn away from the orc supplicants. They advanced toward the burial mound.
“It’s working,” Vitagut said.
“Even if it does…” Maysant trailed off.
He knew what she meant: the ghosts were only the beginning. They still had a bigger battle ahead. And even if the shaman saved most of his army from certain death, he now doubted they would fight alongside him and his father to defeat their god.
One by one, the ghosts moved toward the smoke. And when they approached the burial mound, they disappeared right into it—as if they sought to find respite with their bodies.
In the distance, Drothu roared his disapproval.
Drothu could protest all he wanted, Vitagut thought. The shaman’s ancient invocation was working. Maybe they would stand a chance. Maybe they could save the city, and their orcs, from what only days ago had seemed an inevitable defeat.
A flash of red pulled his eyes from the mound. The faun. So, she’d managed to escape the castle too. She was running directly toward the retreating ghosts, her eyes wide, her hands empty. What was she doing?
“Alyna!” Vitagut shouted.
She ran headlong into a ghost, and it enveloped her.
Chapter 47
Alyna’s skin tingled as she merged with the ghost.
But not just any ghost.
Vron.
She’d found him.
Her senses dulled until she felt nothing. Tasted nothing. Smelled nothing. All that remained were her thoughts as her soul tugged away from her body.
So, this is what it’s like to have your life sucked away. She’d seen it happen to the others—the bodies contorting, then collapsing, then going still. She’d wondered how it felt from the inside. How death was received. Whether they fought back.
Because she had every intention of living. And of bringing Vron back with her.
He wouldn’t be taking her over to his side. She would bring him to hers.
But first she needed to hear him. She needed to know if he was at all conscious within the ghost that had assumed his form.
Quieting her mind, she listened. Roars and shrieks multiplied around her, the battle louder and more pitched than the most violent storm, but she shut it all out, bringing her consciousness into focus. She’d mastered meditation long ago; she knew how to transcend her body with only measured breaths. And she would do that now. Her body was faltering, and she would leave it behind. Perhaps it would survive long enough for her to save Vron from his fate. Perhaps it wouldn’t.
Her body didn’t matter. It never had. All that mattered was her soul. And Vron’s. She didn’t believe for one moment that Vron had chosen to rise again as a ghost. He wouldn’t kill blindly. He was trapped, and she would save him before the orc shaman returned his soul to
the Nether. She needed him, something she had refused to admit until he was dead. She was a fool.
She was also going to be damned if she didn’t fix her mistake.
Then she heard it.
Her name.
It was him. Vron. He’d spoken her name, and it had touched her soul. He wasn’t damned yet. He wasn’t gone.
Vron, she whispered.
My love, he responded.
As her body shut down, she could almost feel his fingers gently tickling along her spine. I’m sorry, she said, her soul weeping. I never told you how much I love you. I can’t let you go.
I’m already gone, he said. This ghost, this thing, it isn’t me.
You’re still here. I can hear you. I can feel you.
It’s too late, Alyna. My body has already started to decompose. Even if you could find a way to save my soul, I can’t reenter my body.
Bile rose in her throat as it clenched, gasping for air. Alyna pushed away the physical sensation. She refused to give up.
I love you. The words were like a sharp razor over skin, cutting over and over again. It was a wound she couldn’t heal without him.
My love… He sounded farther away.
No! Don’t leave me! Where are you going?
You must live. It’s too late for me. Know this, Alyna: I have always loved you. I will always love you. Carry that with you. It is a gift I only gave to you. None but you ever heard those words from my lips. I don’t want you to meet the same fate as me.
I don’t want to live without you. Alyna felt her body jerking, gasping for air. Her damn body. It kept trying to pull her back to it. But she wouldn’t return. Not without Vron.
In this form, I have killed countless without choice. My soul has been used for evil, and I have been unable to resist. But to protect you, I will resist. You will be safe. But I must go with the others, so my soul can rest.
“Noooo….” She heard the word grunted from her throat.
You must let me go, he said. And in return, I will force the ghost to let you live. I love you, and I know—I always knew—you loved me in return.
