Burning points of light spread above Dormael like a wealth of heavenly gemstones. Bright blue stars pierced the night sky, with clouds of purple and gold splashed through the shadow. Orbs with twisting bands of color floated above, storms of lightning dotting their surfaces. Comets burned through the dark, trailing blue tails behind them. The moon was a pink disk blotting out the corner of the sky, its face decorated with pockmarks. The Void twisted above Dormael as he followed the woman.
“What is this place?”
The woman pulled him onward.
She was bare to the night, moving with hypnotic grace. The gloom caressed the gentle curves of her skin until she glowed under its touch. She pulled Dormael ever onward, her hair floating backwards to tickle his face. Her scent was like summer itself—wild and vibrant. The touch of her hand was like cold fire, her grip as uncompromising as steel.
Her fingernails gleamed like polished silver. They dug into Dormael’s skin, drawing a trickle of blood that pattered to the flowers. The blood trail disappeared over the bent horizon.
The woman stopped at the crest of a tall, rounded hill. She pulled Dormael close, the touch of her body setting his senses aflame. Her face was statuesque, her expression blank. The eyes that ran over Dormael’s body gleamed with the same metallic sheen of her fingernails.
The woman grabbed his chin and turned his head to the valley below.
Sunlight filled the valley, while the hills above remained cloaked under the twisting night sky. Groups of people stood in the lowlands, gathered into separate factions. Victus stood near the front, with Jarek Suriah and other Warlocks. The necromancer he’d killed at Orm waited at the head of a formation of silent corpses. A faceless man wearing a crown stood before ordered ranks of Galanian Red Swords.
Facing them was a single man—Dormael himself.
The woman’s grip tightened on his hand as his enemies gathered their strength, her nails biting deep into his skin. Victus summoned his power, the Necromancer gestured at his corpses, and the soldiers prepared their weapons. Dormael could feel the danger as a palpable thing, as if he and his doppleganger below were connected.
Just when Dormael was sure his enemies were about to strike, the woman pulled his face around to look in his eyes. He saw himself reflected in their silvery depths, saw the desire in his own expression. She pulled him close, opening her mouth for a kiss. Some part of Dormael balked, but his need for her was intense.
His lips touched hers like an explosion.
The woman wrapped her body around him, climbing onto his torso as if nothing held her to the ground. They devolved into a tangle of pawing limbs and questing hands. Dormael lost himself in the struggle. His whole body felt hot, as if he were actually on fire.
When he opened his eyes, he stood before his enemies. Silver tendrils rose from his body, posturing like scorpion tails at those who stood across from him. His sight was covered with a crimson haze. He couldn’t tell if the haze came from his eyes, or the light burning from the gem on his shoulder. Terror twisted the faces of Dormael’s enemies, and he was filled with righteous anger.
Dormael raised his hands to the twisting Void. The Nar’doroc sang. It burned Victus to ash before he could summon his magic. The necromancer screamed as he was set aflame. He thrashed in glorious agony before falling still to the dirt. The corpses went down like dry wheat, blowing away like dust as they were consumed. The Galanians turned to flee but Dormael sent the fire chasing after them. By the time he was done, there was nothing but sweet desolation.
The silver woman filled Dormael’s mind with her voice. He could feel her within the power of the Nar’doroc. She sang to him of passion, anger, and victory.
She sang of ruin, and Dormael raised his voice to sing with her.
***
“Your Highness, I am Lieutenant Jarom Hardin,” said the stiff-backed Imperial soldier. He put his fist to his forehead and bowed, echoing the Thardish custom. “I have been assigned as your liaison here in camp. General Crammon would be here to greet you himself, but he is currently serving the Emperor. He sends his regards and sincerest apologies.”
Nalia waited before replying, taking the opportunity to study the man. He wore no weapons within the fortifications of the war camp, only the gray uniform coat issued to officers in the Galanian soldiery. A single bar was sewn along the line of his shoulder, indicating his rank. The man was young, but not insultingly so. Had Dargorin’s staff sent her a page, it would have been a slight. This one, though, looked to be a true soldier. His eyes were older than the face that held them.
He’s seen real fighting. Perhaps it’s a sign of respect.
“A salute will suffice from now on, Lieutenant,” Nalia said, adopting the tone of command. “No need to stand on such ceremony.”
“As you wish, Highness.” Hardin turned and gestured to the pavilion, where a small group of servants in Imperial livery unloaded her belongings from the baggage train. “General Crammon lent his own staff to see to your accommodations. He’s also instructed his chamberlain to provide a pair of runners for your service. I see you have brought your own people, but if you need it, I can set up a meeting with the head of the logistics division, Major Penton. I’m sure he could help with filling any open positions left on your staff.”
I’m sure he’d provide me with the best spies in camp. Nalia had her suspicions about the runners, too. She would need to take at least one Imperial servant into her service, if only to feed misinformation to whomever was watching.
Spies are only dangerous if you don’t know who they are, her mother would have said.
Nalia gave Hardin a frosty smile. “I thank you, Lieutenant. Lady Verith will manage my affairs in that regard. Will she be needing paperwork? Special permissions?”
“Your word will suffice, Highness. I will tell Major Penton to expect her.”
“Good.” Nalia eyed the man for a moment, allowing him to notice her scrutiny. “What was your last assignment, Lieutenant?”
“I was a member of General Crammon’s staff, Highness.”
“And before that?”
He stood a bit straighter. “Second file commander under Captain Faral, Third Infantry in the Expeditionary Forces.”
Nalia recalled what she knew of the Empire’s war of aggression. “You fought in Shundovia, correct?”
“Yes, Highness.” His eyes were the only thing to betray his surprise.
Nalia softened her expression. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I will not be some pampered twit to whom you must cater like a child. I don’t abuse those in my service, especially men who have won honor on the battlefield.”
Hardin’s eyes betrayed a moment’s confusion before his professionalism reasserted itself.
“I expected nothing of the sort, Highness. I thank you for your kind words. I am at your service, regardless.”
“I appreciate it,” Nalia said, letting him see another moment of warmth before reaffirming her air of command. “You will dine with my staff tomorrow evening. Do I need to clear that with General Crammon?”
“Ah—no, Highness. I am yours to command, and deeply honored by the invitation.”
“Good. Lady Serena, my handmaiden, will see to the arrangements.”
“Very well, Highness.” Hardin offered another Thardish bow. Since she had given him leave to salute, Nalia first thought the gesture was a mistake. She stopped herself from reminding him when it occurred to her that he’d bowed out of respect.
And my seed is planted. He may not trust me yet, but he likes me.
“How goes the war, Lieutenant? I heard tales of attacks on the journey here.”
Hardin nodded. “Raiding, Highness, along the supply route from the north—the very road you traveled, in fact. The work of a nomadic tribe that lives in the Haunted Hills to the east.”
Nalia had heard the stories. Verith was thorough where information was concerned. The raiders, it was said, could appear like ghosts. They killed everyone, stole anything they could c
arry, and disappeared into the hills before a pursuit could be mounted. The raids had pinned the army in place for most of the season. It dared not move while its supply lines were threatened, and it had yet to force the raiders into battle.
“Dreadful,” Nalia said. “My men were enough to discourage any attacks, but I almost wish they had tried. The Sworn Men would cut down such rabble with ease.”
Hardin smiled, though his eyes were tight along the edges. “As you say, Highness.”
“You don’t agree?”
The lieutenant hesitated and cleared his throat. “I don’t mean offense, Highness, but these Mala’kii are more than just a thieving rabble. They can fight, and there are darker things said about them.”
“Darker things? Elaborate, Lieutenant.”
“They mutilate some of those they kill, but not all of them.” Hardin grimaced at the words as if he found them distasteful. “General Crammon thinks there is religious significance to it, like they’re sacrificing to a dark god. Some of the local traders who do business with the Mala’kii say they worship their horses, though, and use sorcery in battle. There’s much confusion about them.”
“Sorcery?” Nalia felt a spike of anxiety. Verith hadn’t heard those rumors.
“We don’t know much about them, Highness, just what the stories say. General Crammon would have more valuable information.”
He let something slip. There’s more to the raids than simple banditry. From Hardin’s expression, the general staff is worried. Interesting.
“Speaking of your commanders,” Nalia said, “when am I to be granted an audience?”
Hardin’s professional air returned. “The Emperor himself wants to meet you, Highness. I am to inform you that he wants you to get settled and rest. He’s extended an invitation to meet with you on the morrow.”
“I see. And my father and brother? Why are they not here to greet me?”
“Both are deployed with our forward battalions,” Hardin said. “King Arynthaal is expected to return within the week. In His Majesty’s absence, General Crammon has pledged to see to your every need.”
Nalia spotted Yurian, the captain of her Sworn Men, approaching from the baggage train. Yurian was a tall, muscular man with bright eyes. He was sweating in his chain mail—the heat in Moravia was sweltering—and wearing a thunderhead scowl. Yurian bowed to Nalia and eyed Lieutenant Hardin with suspicion.
Yurian looked at everyone that way. He had been her protector since she was a girl. Nalia had never seen him smile at anyone but his closest friends.
“Speaking of my every need,” Nalia said, gesturing to Yurian, “this is the commander of my Sworn Men, Captain Yurian. You will become familiar with him, Lieutenant. Wherever I go, he goes.”
“Like your own shadow, Highness.” Yurian’s cold eyes peered at Hardin.
Lieutenant Hardin offered Yurian a salute, but refused to drop his gaze. Nalia pretended ignorance of the two men sizing each other up. Hardin was not cowed by Yurian, and Nalia found herself impressed with the man. Yurian’s stare was legendary with Sworn Men and noble courtiers alike.
This one is no courtier or attendant. I’ll need to keep that in mind.
“Ah,” Nalia said, breaking the tension, “there is Lady Serena. Lieutenant, I leave you in her capable hands.”
Serena came gliding over and gave Lieutenant Hardin a short bow. Hardin’s cheeks reddened as Serena took his hand and led him away, all smiles and laughter. Once the Galanian was out of earshot, Nalia turned to Yurian.
“What do you think?”
Yurian sighed. “The camp’s well organized. The Galanians fight well. They’ve put us in the center, near the rest of the command. If we have to escape, we’ll have to fight our way through two battalions of troops just to get outside the palisades.”
“I noticed. It will not come to blades within the camp, Yurian. I promise you.”
“I’ll prepare all the same, Highness. I sent two of my boys through the camp, looking for the best escape routes, just in case. I’ll know everything there is to know about the defenses come nightfall.”
“I have every confidence in you, my friend.” Nalia patted the big man on his armored chest. “Gather an escort. We’re going for a ride.”
“Do I need to bring anything special?”
“Just that thunderhead expression. I’m going to the logistics division to supervise the allocation of the supplies the Crown has gathered for the war effort. We cannot let them profit from us without the camp seeing who brought such bounty, can we?”
“Not if you say we can’t, Highness.”
“I’ll need you to scowl and look as threatening as possible. I want a display of force.”
Yurian smiled. “You know how I like to make trouble on your behalf, Highness.”
“You’ve never let me down, Captain.”
“All the gods willing, I’m not going to start,” Yurian said, offering a salute.
He turned away, barking orders at his men, who were gathering outside her pavilion. Nalia felt comforted by Yurian’s presence. Her handmaidens were her best friends, and dangerous in their own rights, but nothing could beat a good sword-arm when the blood hit the snow. Yurian was the best of men—loyal, deadly, and efficient. Other members of her staff might be more versatile, but none were more effective.
“Highness?”
Nalia turned to find Jaylenia holding the reins to a pair of horses. Nalia smiled, taking the reins from Jay’s hand, and patted the neck of her horse—a massive black stallion she had named Avalanche. He was a trained warhorse, and came from the best stock in Alderak. Nalia had paid a fortune to a Cambrellian breeder years ago. Avalanche nuzzled her hand and Nalia smiled as she patted his face.
“A fearsome beast,” Jaylenia said. “I hear we’re riding to the logistics division?”
“We are.” Nalia climbed into the saddle. “The Imperial command will learn that I’m not to be trifled with, or shoved aside. I plan to ruffle feathers.”
Jay smiled. “Would you like me to inform Lieutenant Hardin of your intentions?”
Nalia replied with a wink.
Yurian trotted over, leading a squad of Sworn Men. They formed up around her horse, shields at the ready. Yurian gave Nalia a smart salute and took up his position at the head of the formation. Nalia glanced toward her pavilion, making sure that Serena was still keeping the Lieutenant occupied within.
He’s probably stammering and eating out of her hand by now. Even a professional like Hardin would find it difficult to resist Serena’s charms. Nalia cleared her throat and Jaylenia mounted her own horse.
“Alright, Captain,” she called to Yurian. “Let’s go make some friends!”
Nalia wanted to smile as her procession moved into the war camp’s makeshift avenues. She pushed her mirth to the pit of her stomach. Composure, grace, and cold superiority—those were the traits she needed to cultivate.
Nalia tried to imagine the look on Hardin’s face when he realized she was missing. Doubtless, he had been instructed to perform some measure of control where she was concerned—keep her from messing things up. She could almost hear some fat, old general saying it.
Nalia Arynthaal would not be controlled. She would not be pushed into neat little corners, she would not allow events to control her. Nalia would set her own agenda, no matter what choices were laid out by the Imperial command. Even if she did nothing but sit her saddle and scowl at the officers supervising the unloading of the wagons, she would make her presence felt.
Come nightfall, the whole camp will know I am here, and the tone for my interactions with the command staff will be set. Nalia smiled as the crowd muttered in her wake, though she kept her eyes forward. Tell your friends the Ice Princess has come to the front.
“And she brings your doom with her.” Nalia whispered the words, daring to utter them in the center of Imperial power. Her mind, though, whispered a warning in return. It sent a chill up Nalia’s spine, but she could not deny its poignancy.<
br />
If you don’t bring your own doom as well.
***
Dormael woke to the pounding of his own heart.
The stars stretched above him, but farther away than in the dream. There were no colored orbs, and no golden mist. The moon was once again a distant crescent, silver and aloof. The color made him think of the woman’s eyes and their metallic hunger.
Dormael closed his own eyes against the stars and listened with his Kai. The Nar’doroc was quiet. In the days since they’d come into the mountains, it had ceased its humming at dusk. Dormael felt an odd sense of jealousy at the artifact’s silence, and a wash of guilt right on its heels.
He hungered for the thing. He had tasted its power, and now a part of him that lived deep in the recesses of his mind wanted more. Somehow the alien entity had crawled into his mind. Even his dreams were falling prey to its temptation.
A chill wind blew through the passes, biting into Dormael’s clammy skin. He was loathe to return to his dreams, where the silver woman could find him. Tossing his blankets away from his chest, he sat up and looked around.
Shawna was lying nearby, turned away from him and wrapped in her blankets. Her hair was braided close to her scalp, though the blanket hid the rest of her form. Thoughts of Shawna summoned the memory of the dream-woman’s silky, moon-touched hair, and Dormael looked away.
I have to guard my dreams with more care.
Bethany was on his other side. She looked like nothing but a lump inside her bedroll. Dormael leaned over to look. Bethany had pulled the covers over her face sometime in the night.
“She was having a nightmare,” D’Jenn said. “From the sound of it, so were you.”
Dormael glanced over to find D’Jenn’s body sliding from a bank of shadows as his magic bid them to retreat. He was sitting on a fallen log and staring into the darkness, the axe he’d bought at the last village clutched in his hand. Dormael could feel the cold scrutiny of D’Jenn’s eyes.
“Was she saying anything?”
The City Under the Mountain Page 3
