The Waiting King (2018 reissue)

by Deborah Hale

  “What is all this?” he demanded.

  The rest of the men continued their feigned slumber. Anulf continued his feigned fit.

  “You!” The Han bent down to give Anulf a shake.

  At that instant, Rath and four others leapt to their feet and grabbed him. Odger, a former blacksmith with massive hands, clapped one over the guard’s mouth. Theto, a nimble-fingered young pickpocket from Ulwin, deftly removed the pouch of slag from the guard’s belt, opened it and held it to the Han’s nose.

  In a very short time, his struggling ceased and they were able to gag him and strip off his armor.

  “Goar!” a voice called in Hanish. “Any trouble down there?”

  Now came the moment Rath had been preparing for. He had been listening to the night guard, Goar, particularly when the fellow spoke in his native tongue to the other guards.

  He called back in Hanish, using his best imitation of Goar’s voice, “Just one of these cursed lowlings having a fit.”

  “Kick him hard in the head,” the other guard advised. “That will quiet him quick enough.”

  Rath dredged up a rumble of malicious laughter, knowing how soon the other guard would join his comrade.

  As the one closest in size to Goar, Rath donned the Han’s armor as quickly as the others stripped it off. Once he was ready, he called for help. Soon both guards lay bound, gagged and slagged, while two of the rebels were armed.

  Before long, they were in full control of level three. Now came the next big challenge. Each level of the mine was connected to the ones above and below by long rope ladders that were only lowered when someone needed to descend a level, then immediately raised again. If necessary, the Han could cut access to the upper levels, starving out any rebellion brewing below.

  Was that what had happened recently to create the current shortage of miners? Rath wondered as he and his men approached the passage between levels two and three. Well, the Han had not reckoned on a group of prisoners resistant to the slag, with a leader who could speak passable Hanish.

  One of his team had spied out the procedure for getting the ladder lowered.

  Now Rath called up, “Some trouble on level six. They’re sending a messenger up to report to the Leader.”

  “Always level six, isn’t it?” grumbled the man above as he lowered the ladder. “What do they expect, the guards get almost as big a dose of slag as the prisoners. Hope I never get booted down that deep.”

  By the time the ladder guard had finished his litany of complaints, Rath had subdued him, and the team of Embrian imposters in Hanish armor had clambered up to the next level.

  With their disguises, they secured level two even more quickly than they had level three.

  “Now...” Rath struggled to curb a sense of elation that no amount of slag could subdue, “it is time for us to split up. Anulf, you take your men and go after the lower levels. Rouse as many of the prisoners as you can and send them up. I want them boiling up to the surface just about the time their night dose wears off.”

  “I will see you up above, Wolf.” Anulf clasped his hand. “And if I do not make it, I will go to the Giver happy to have been part of this.”

  “Do not talk so daft, man!” Rath growled. “Of course I will see you up above. I am counting on you.”

  An unfamiliar sensation twisted deep in his gut as he watched Anulf’s men depart and turned back to the ones he would lead. Never again would he be able to lose followers without it cutting him to the bone.

  He forced his mind back to their mission. “Keep your wits about you, everyone, and nobody get cocky. The Han did not overrun our kingdom because they are cowardly or stupid.”

  Perhaps not. But they had become as dependent on the slag, in their own way, as the miners had. Tonight they would pay the price for it.

  Rath knew the conquest of level one would come at greater risk than those on two and three. Since the upper level housed newer prisoners, not yet fully subdued by the slag, the guards were more numerous and vigilant.

  All went according to plan, until one guard they approached noticed the lack of plumes on their helmets. He called out an alarm before the blacksmith snapped his neck. Other guards came running and Rath’s men were forced to fight with unfamiliar weapons in a dim confined space.

  When the pickpocket, Theto, took a bad wound to his arm, Rath feared the tide of their small battle might turn against them. But he had not reckoned on the level one prisoners.

  Roused from sleep by the noise, not yet fuddled by slag, a few of them recognized what was happening. Unarmed, they threw themselves upon the Hanish guards.

  “Wolf!” One of Anulf’s men staggered up to Rath panting. “Have you secured the last ladder yet? The prisoners from the lower levels are pouring up. There will be no holding them if they get this far.”

  Rath cursed. “Pull up the ladder between here and level two until I send word.” He turned to his own men. “Hunwald, find something to bind Theto’s arm. Strang, stop any prisoners from the lower levels who reach here until you hear me call. Then relay my signal and let them come.”

  He motioned to the blacksmith and two others who had given good account of themselves with their weapons. “Odger, Tobryn, Wake, you are with me.”

  They rushed to the ladder passage where Rath called up the lie that had gotten them up two levels so far.

  “Level six?” called down the young Han in charge of the surface ladder. “What kind of trouble? I was told to let no one up until the change of guard at daybreak.”

  “Daybreak?” Rath bellowed. If they did not get up that ladder soon, all could be lost. “I will break your head when I get up there, you unlicked whelp! And put you on report to the Leader for letting the situation down here get out of hand!”

  “Very well, then,” replied the young Han in a sullen tone as the ladder unfurled. “But you will take responsibility if there is trouble. What did you say your name was again?”

  “I did not say.” Rath pushed the young guard through the hole to the first level.

  Below he heard Tobryn calling to the others that the way to the surface was clear.

  “Best take off these Hanish helmets, lads,” he advised his men as they climbed to the surface. “So our own folk do not turn on us.”

  He knew once the prisoners came pouring up, it would only be a matter of time before an alarm was raised and they found themselves under fierce attack. “Remember, we hold the head of this ladder until the last Embrian climbs out of that cursed pit. After that, where each of you go and what you do is up to you. But you will go with my thanks and blessing.”

  He pulled the Hanish helmet off his head and threw it as far as it would fly. Seldom had he felt a more welcome sensation than the cool breeze of a mountain daybreak blowing through his hair. He did not have long to savor it.

  Chapter Nine

  THE FIRST WAVE of miners came scrambling out of the mountain, like ants from a colony under attack. Most of them were black as ants and some were armed with stingers in the shape of Hanish blades taken from the guards below.

  Their escape did not go unnoticed for long. A small party of day guards ran toward the mine head with blades drawn. Between Rath, his crew and the emerging prisoners, the Han did not last long. But two managed to escape the rout and dash back to the barracks.

  An alarm bell rang from the barracks tower, loud and wild. Soon after, Hanish soldiers poured from the barracks faster than miners were climbing from the pit head.

  As the first wave broke upon them, Rath threw himself into the fray with all his strength, speed and cunning. It felt as if his whole life, he had been a weapon in the hands of some greater power, being perfectly crafted and honed for this fight.

  “Wolf!”

  Rath was able to turn in the direction of the voice, for one of the prisoners had dealt a mortal blow from behind to the Han who had attacked him.

  “Anulf!” he cried. “You made it! Well done!”

  “You have not done so badl
y, yourself.” Anulf hefted his stolen blade and glanced around the pit head, as if looking for a Han to use it on, but finding none readily available. “I would say Beastmount Mine will be ours before the sun is fully risen.”

  Then, above the cries of battle, a shrill, eerie wail rose.

  “Slag!” Anulf spat on the ground. “It is one of those cursed death-mages.”

  Rath knew what he must do, though his courage faltered at the thought. “He has a fearful weapon in that wand, but he is only one man for all that. While I draw his spell, you must take some of our lads and go for his back.”

  “Are you sure, Wolf? I have taken a lick from one of those cursed things, and I would not willingly put myself in the path of one again.”

  “I am not willing, but it must be done and I cannot ask another man to do it.” The screaming stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Perhaps the Xenoth was looking for a worthier victim. “Once he goes for me, strike hard and fast. I may not be able to stand it long.”

  With that, both men set off—Anulf readily, Rath forcing himself each step. Was he mad—to put himself in front of a wand-wielding death-mage, knowing what awaited him? He had better not think about it too much, or he might turn and run.

  The Xenoth was all that stood in their way, now, Rath told himself. Once Anulf and his men brought the death-mage down, any other resistance was sure to collapse.

  So he strode through the fray determined to appear braver and more confident than he felt. The fighting seemed to part before him until he caught the Xenoth’s attention.

  “Death-mage!” he bellowed, followed by a Hanish insult.

  This was getting to be a habit with him—making himself a target for the Han. Only this time he would not run away and lead them a chase, with at least a hope of escape.

  The Xenoth raised his wand.

  Rath tried to brace himself for what would come. But that was impossible.

  Still he locked his lips together, a mute challenge to the Xenoth to make him cry out. Then the pain hit him.

  It was a different kind of pain than he had suffered before—a lethal brew of fear and all a man’s worst nightmares. He saw Maura violated and murdered before his eyes, one hand reached out to him, her gaze imploring. But he could not go to her aid.

  One tiny, detached part of his mind tried to reassure him it was only a wicked illusion, but his heart could not believe that. With each beat, it ached to bursting.

  He was vaguely aware of Anulf and the others fighting the Han who guarded the death-mage’s back. This would soon be over—it must, before it shattered his mind and heart, making him crave the slag as his only remedy.

  Then a cry went up from the Han, making the death-mage ease his grip on Rath for an instant. But it brought Rath no relief.

  He saw a second Xenoth surging up the mountain to join the first. At his back marched a troop of Hanish reinforcements to crush the revolt.

  The sight robbed Rath of all hope. For he could not deny it was real.

  The frantic ringing of a bell and the distant tumult of battle roused Maura from a restless doze.

  Was she too late?

  After laying their plans, gathering supplies and recruiting helpers, she and some of the twarith had started up the mountain the previous day. Maura could hardly wait to tear off the black robe she had been wearing since then.

  Though it had never belonged to a real death-mage, there was still something oppressive about the hastily sewn disguise. As though it might transform her from the outside in. Or perhaps that was the insidious effect of the copper wand. Either way, she longed to rid herself of both, once and for all.

  As soon as she had liberated Rath from the mine.

  Her small troop was ready. On the way up the mountain, they had ambushed enough Hanish checkpoint guards to provide everyone with armor, however ill-fitting. More than once she had jolted out of a moment’s abstraction to feel a fleeting twist of terror at the sight of herself surrounded by Han.

  Some of the twarith were willing to fight the Han with their own weapons. Others, Maura had taught the binding spell. Their meeting cellar beneath “The Hawk and Hound” had provided a well-stocked arsenal of spider silk. Clavance and two others skilled in the healing arts had come prepared with herbs and linen to tend any wounded.

  Within a short distance of the mine, they had stopped to eat and rest before the attack they had planned to make once all the day guards went down to relieve the night guards. Then there would be the fewest Han above ground for her party to subdue. That information had come second hand from an escaped miner the twarith had given aid a few months before. It made a kind of sense, and it was all they had. Maura hoped it was still correct.

  The noise from up the mountain did not sound promising. But the Giver had brought them this far. They could not turn back now.

  In case any of her followers was even considering it, Maura urged them on. “Come! The miners may have risen up. They will need our help. Fly to their aid!”

  She could not have spoken any words better calculated to rouse and inspire the twarith. For years they had labored in secret opposition to the Han. Now was their opportunity for a bold act of defiance in aid of their most oppressed countrymen.

  Maura barely had time to pull the despised black hood over her head and grab the copper wand, before the rush of twarith carried her the final short distance up the mountain.

  All was chaos around the mine head.

  Miners fought Hanish guards with no weapons but their fists and feet. The sight brought Maura a surge of hope.

  But what was this? Some Han fighting their own comrades with blades? The situation puzzled her for a moment, until she realized many of the men in Hanish armor wore no helms. Nor did they have the long flowing plumes of flaxen hair.

  She turned to her comrades, half-laughing in a frenzy of relief. “Take off your helmets and keep a sharp eye who you attack! Some of those men in Hanish armor are Embrians!”

  A cry went up from the twarith, as they came to understand what was happening. Casting their helmets aside, they threw themselves into the fray.

  “You had best take off your disguise, too, Mistress,” Clavance called to Maura. “Else someone may strike you down for a death-mage!”

  “With pleasure!” She all but ripped the hood from her head and tore the robe in her haste to remove it.

  She was about to hurl the copper wand away, too, when her gaze flew to the other black robed figure among the combatants, and his wand of eisendark.

  Clearly he had it pointed at someone. But where were the screams?

  Then she saw him. A tall figure in Hanish armor, a few day’s growth of beard stubbling his lean cheeks. Tawny hair streaked with dark mine dust, desperately needed another good washing. No sound escaped him, but the taut twist of his limbs and features betrayed mute torment.

  Maura ran toward him. Blades clashed above her head. A hand snaked out to grab her ankle, but she kicked free of it.

  The last time she had thrust this wand between a death-mage and his prey, she had not known what she was doing nor had she guessed what might happen. This time, she knew.

  She would have given almost anything to avoid doing it, but there was one thing... or rather one person, she could not abandon to the cruelest of mortcraft. No matter what it cost her.

  She stepped between Rath and his tormentor.

  For a delirious instant, a rush of power and mastery swept through her. Some seductive intuition whispered that she could be mistress of this potent dark force if only she had the courage and the will to dare it. It reminded her of all the evil the Han had committed against her people, urging her to take vengeance.

  With such power at her disposal, what would she need with the Waiting King? She could be a warrior queen in her own right, second to no man, free to take a consort of her own choosing.

  How that notion tempted her!

  She glanced back at Rath to discover he had fallen, spent from his ordeal. His gaze sought hers,
surely to urge that she claim the power offered her.

  Instead he stared at her with aversion, as though she had suddenly grown repulsive to behold. Her grip on the power wavered, as did its grip upon her. Then it reasserted itself.

  Never mind about the man, it urged her. If she wanted him, she would have the power to make him love her.

  “No!” She wrenched her gaze away from Rath to face the death-mage once more.

  Is it you who put such thoughts in my head to beguile me?

  Better than that. I slither through your mind, collecting your deepest desires, then I offer them to you. You can have that same skill and more if you will only take it. Be warned, though. Either you master this power and make it your own or it will master you.

  Suffocating darkness loomed over her, a warning of what she risked by defying him. Then as her desires lured her and her fears pushed her, she heard her own voice asking Langbard, “Why me? I am nobody special. I have no wish to be queen.”

  She’d had no such wish then, nor did she now. Perhaps that was what made her special and fitted her for this destiny.

  Only if I try to master this dark force will it truly master me... as it has mastered you.

  Though she held onto the wand with all her strength, it felt as though she had let go the leash of a huge, ravenous beast.

  Which now turned to consume her.

  Maura had rescued him from the death-mage’s torment only to thrust him into worse. Where the Xenoth had taunted him with visions of Maura despoiled in body, Rath now saw the danger that she would be violated in spirit.

  Never had she looked more beautiful or more regal, poised upon the field of battle, in a duel of wills with the death-mage. But she looked nothing like the woman he had come to love. There was something vain and cruel in her eyes that mocked him and his presumptuous feelings for her. If that was to be the price for saving him, he would rather perish.

  Sensing her struggle to resist, he tried to call out to her, but he could not make his voice heard above the tumult of the fighting. He tried to rise and go to her, but his limbs were still half-numb.