[Queen of Orcs 03] - Royal Destiny

by Morgan Howell

  “We shared name.”

  “She was called Nir-yat?”

  “Hai.”

  “Was her sister Dargu-yat?” asked Dar, trying to sound playful.

  “Thwa,” hissed Nir-yat. “Who would name their daughter Dargu?” Weasel. “Her name is Meera.”

  “So she still lives?”

  “Hai, but she’s so old that her daughter heads hanmuthi.”

  Having learned what she needed, Dar let the conversation wander where it would. But shortly after Nir-yat left, Dar summoned one of the sons who stood outside her hanmuthi. He entered and bowed. “Hai, Muth Mauk.”

  “Do you know where mother named Meera-yat lives?”

  “Hai. In her daughter’s hanmuthi. It’s in oldest part of hall, near court of black stone pool.”

  “Take me there, then speak of this to no one.”

  Five

  When Coric heard pounding on his master’s door, he approached it nervously. The sun was setting, and there had been a rash of robberies in Taiben. A rich merchant’s house was a prime target. Coric slid open the peephole and saw a disreputable-looking man standing in the street. His coarse face had a vacant look. Coric noticed that his cheeks twitched uncontrollably and his chin was covered with drool. Beside the man was a handcart, its load covered by a beautiful tapestry. Coric assumed it was stolen, but he knew his master never questioned a bargain.

  “I’ve somethin’ fer yer master,” said the man in a dead voice. “Open the door.”

  Coric smiled at the simpleminded ruse. “I think not.”

  “Then take a good look, and tell yer master what I bring.”

  Coric watched as the man lifted a corner of the tapestry to reveal a blackened face with staring eyes. “Obey me,” said the face. Thought and will drained from Coric’s mind. When he said, “Yes, Master,” he spoke with the same lifeless tone of the man with the handcart.

  Balten was annoyed by Coric’s sudden appearance, and he let his servant know it. “You knock, you dog’s spawn, afore you enter.”

  Coric seemed unfazed by his master’s ire. “Come to the entrance hall,” he said in a flat tone Balten had never heard before. “There’s someone you must meet.”

  “Must? Must indeed! I meet whom I please. Leave me and throw that arrogant intruder from my house.”

  Instead of complying, Coric grabbed Balten’s arm and began pulling him toward the door. Balten struck his face repeatedly, but Coric didn’t flinch as he dragged his master away. By the time the two reached the stairs, Balten had ceased struggling. When he arrived at the entrance hall, a bizarre sight confronted him. A dirty, unkempt man stood by an empty handcart. His face was animated by a constant twitch; otherwise it was blank. Two of Balten’s house servants flanked him. Both their faces were equally vacant. A chair had been dragged into the hall and upon it sat the most grotesque member of the ensemble—a man with the aspect of a charred corpse. His lap was covered by an exquisite tapestry.

  Despite his terror, Balten summoned up his outrage and addressed the blackened man. “How dare you trespass here? What have you done to my servants?”

  “They’re my servants now,” replied the intruder. His voice, though low and hoarse, was commanding. He pointed with a handless sleeve at one of Balten’s servants. “Slit your throat.”

  Without hesitation or hint of emotion, the man drew a small knife from his tunic and slashed his neck. Then he stood motionless until his life drained from him and he collapsed. Balten stared aghast.

  “He would have slit your throat just as calmly,” said the man in the chair. “Or I could enslave you like him and give the same command.”

  “Who…Who are you? What do you want?”

  The charred man bared his teeth in a horrific grin. “You know me. I was the royal mage.”

  “Othar? They say you’re dead.”

  “Not dead. Transformed. My body’s suffered, but I’ve been compensated. I can seize minds with a glance and command total obedience.”

  Balten tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “Are you going to rob me of my mind?”

  “My slaves are useful,” said Othar, “but they quickly end up like Nuggle here.” He pointed to the drooling, twitching man. “He’s lasted longest, but he’s nearly spent. I want you intact.”

  Balten attempted a smile. “I’m gratified.”

  Othar smiled back. The effect was hideous. “You should be.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I can discern your thoughts, so I’ll answer your true questions,” replied the mage. “I want neither your wealth nor your life. Yes, you’ll benefit. In fact, I’m going to make you wealthier. Much wealthier. And I’ll settle that matter with Maltus. I need only a glance into his eyes.”

  “How did you learn about Maltus?”

  “You have no secrets from me. I know you’re tupping Coric’s wife. Don’t fret; Coric’s past caring. You worry that your youngest is not of your seed. Bring forth your wife, and I’ll find out the truth. This spring, you poisoned that Luvein cloth merchant for his goods. Need I go on?”

  Balten silently stared at Othar.

  “Good,” said Othar. “I require a man to act as my agent. Someone familiar with the court, but inconspicuous. I’ll stay in the shadows while you serve as my face and hands. In return, you’ll prosper.”

  Before Balten could utter a word, Othar responded to what he was thinking. “Because wealth will make you more useful. You need only do as I say. Riches don’t interest me, though I command many thieves. What surplus they bring, such as this tapestry, you may keep. Are you agreed to serve me?”

  Balten started to reply, then realized his thoughts were laid bare. “Sire, you already know my answer.”

  Othar flashed another grotesque grin. “You learn quickly. That’s good. Invite Maltus to this house tomorrow. Any pretext will do. To demonstrate my beneficence, I’ll resolve your difficulties with him.”

  Balten thought it prudent to bow. “Thank you, sire. Will you tell me why you wish my aid? Since wealth disinterests you, what do you desire? Power?”

  Without any gesture from the mage, Nuggle and the servant beside him turned to seize each other’s throat. Othar watched the two men strangle each other until both expired. Then he chuckled hoarsely. “Power? I’ve power aplenty. I want the opportunity to use it against those I hate. You’ll help with that. Revenge, bloody and merciless, is my desire.”

  The oldest part of the Yat clan hall was such a warren of hanmuthis, small rooms, and connecting passageways, Dar was glad that she had a guide. He halted before an antique doorway and bowed. “This is place, Muth Mauk.”

  Dar entered alone and was met by an elderly mother who looked surprised. After an awkward silence, the mother finally took the initiative and bowed. “Greetings. I’m Metha-yat, Muth Mauk.”

  Unsure how a queen should respond, Dar simply declined her head. “I wish to speak with Meera-yat. Is she here?”

  “Hai. I’ll show you to her chamber. You must speak loudly if she’s to hear you.”

  Metha-yat’s hanmuthi was so old-fashioned that it lacked windows and a chimney. The only daylight entered through the smoke hole above the hearth, and it was fading fast. Small oil lamps provided meager illumination, and in their dim light, Dar couldn’t tell which of the adjoining sleeping chambers were occupied. Metha-yat took a lamp and walked over to one. Its light revealed an ancient mother sitting in the dark.

  “Muthuri,” shouted Metha-yat. “You have visitor.”

  “What?”

  “Visitor. You have visitor.”

  Dar spoke quietly to Metha-yat. “My speech with your muthuri is for her ears only.”

  After Metha-yat bowed and left the hanmuthi, Dar stepped into the small sleeping chamber. Meera-yat had not turned to look at her, and Dar suddenly understood why. Meera-yat’s yellow eyes were filmed over. She was blind.

  “What’s that strange smell?” asked Meera-yat.

  Dar thought she had met every clan
member after her rebirth, but she had no recollection of Meera-yat’s distinctive face. I hope she’s heard of me. She addressed the ancient mother in a loud voice. “I’m Zor-yat’s new daughter. One who was reborn.”

  “No one tells me anything,” muttered Meera-yat. She held out her hand. “Let me feel your face.”

  Dar guided the shaking fingers to her chin, so Meera-yat might touch her clan tattoo first. Meera-yat traced the raised lines of the Yat clan markings. “Your chin feels too round,” she said. Her fingers brushed over Dar’s lips, then halted when they reached her nose. Meera-yat’s surprise and puzzlement were communicated by her touch. Her fingers traveled upward like startled spiders. “What’s this? What’s this?” Meera-yat’s exploration ended at Dar’s brow. “You’re washavoki!”

  “Thwa,” shouted Dar. “I’ve been reborn. I’m urkzimmuthi.”

  “Reborn? Why didn’t you say so?” said Meera-yat. “What’s your name?”

  “I was named Dargu. Now…”

  Meera-yat grinned. “Who gives her daughter animal’s name?”

  “Zor-yat,” said Dar loudly.

  Meera-yat grinned again. “Hai, Zor-yat would do that.”

  “Dargu was my old name. Now I’m…”

  Before Dar finished speaking, Meera-yat touched her crown. “What’s this?”

  “You know,” yelled Dar. “Your sister wore it.”

  “Muth Mauk? You’re Muth Mauk? How did this happen?”

  “Same way it happened for Nir-yat.” Dar gently grasped Meera-yat’s hands and placed them on her chest, duplicating the act that had made her queen. “Fathma.”

  Meera-yat’s hands lingered, and it seemed to Dar that a look of wonder settled on her wrinkled face. “My eyes no longer see,” she said quietly, “so Muth la has enhanced other senses. I can feel my sister’s spirit within you. It’s mingled with many others.” Meera-yat bowed as low as her old back would permit. “Forgive me, Muth Mauk, for calling you washavoki.”

  Rather than shout her reply, Dar gently grasped the old orc’s hands.

  “So you’re Zor-yat’s daughter.” Meera-yat made a face. “Is she pleased you wear crown?”

  “I think not,” shouted Dar.

  “I’m not surprised. Zor-yat was displeased when her sister, and not she, received Fathma. Now she’s been passed over twice. So, Muth Mauk, why did you seek me out?”

  “I’m queen, but I know little,” yelled Dar. “I need guidance. What to do. How to behave.”

  “Is your muthuri no help?”

  “She thinks another should rule.”

  “What?”

  “Wants different queen,” shouted Dar.

  “Herself, no doubt. Probably Muth-yat is of like mind.”

  “Your sister was queen. You know as much as they do.”

  Meera-yat smiled. “I was by her side for many winters.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Hai, Muth Mauk.”

  “I must warn you,” shouted Dar. “I think Muth-yat will be displeased.”

  “What do I care? I’ve nothing to lose. My line is cut. My granddaughters sickened in Taiben. My grandsons died in battles. Only Metha remains, consumed by grief.” Meera-yat thought a moment, then asked, “Do you know of Muth la’s Dome?”

  “Hai,” shouted Dar, recalling the place where she had undergone rebirth.

  “That would be good place to talk. It’s sacred space, and we’d be alone.”

  Dar liked the choice of meeting site. It was proof that Meera-yat recognized Dar’s delicate position. “I’ll send son to guide you there.”

  “I need not eyes to find way. When sun is highest, I’ll go there and wait for you.”

  Dar bowed, though Meera-yat couldn’t see the gesture. “Shashav.”

  “I deserve no thanks, for you honor me, Muth Mauk. I’ll do my utmost. There is much I can teach you, but I can’t find your path. That you must do yourself.”

  Dar had feared as much. Yet, she had one consolation, and she spoke it out loud. “At least I have Fathma. No one can take that.”

  “Council of Matriarchs can.”

  “How?”

  “Haven’t you heard of Muth la’s Draught?”

  “Thwa. What’s that?”

  “Test of worthiness. It’s potion made from seeds of Muth la’s sacred tree. Council can require queen to drink it if they think she’s unfit.”

  “What does that prove?” asked Dar.

  “If queen should rule, Muth la will preserve her life.”

  “Draught is poison?”

  “Only if queen is unfit.”

  “And when she dies, Fathma goes to another?”

  “Hai. It’s Muth la’s will.”

  This revelation stunned Dar, and her position suddenly seemed precarious. The “test” likened to an execution. “Has any queen ever passed this test?”

  “Matriarchs are wise. When they think great mother is unfit, they’ve never been wrong.”

  Six

  By the time Dar returned to the royal hanmuthi, her anxiety had grown. It had occurred to her that the clan matriarchs might oppose her, but she had no idea their opposition could prove fatal. It made her wonder if she had misjudged the intentions behind Zor-yat’s advice to pass on the crown. Yet, while Dar felt threatened, she fought any impulse to surrender. She did so partly from stubbornness, but mostly owing to Fathma. It had continued to transform her in ways too subtle for her to precisely describe, so despite her ignorance, she felt ever more a queen.

  Moreover, Dar hoped the matriarchs would appreciate the good she had accomplished already. No more sons would die in washavoki wars. Dar recalled the slaughter at the Vale of Pines, and the rage she had felt returned. That must never happen again! Her treaty with Queen Girta ensured it wouldn’t. Dar assumed the orc regiments would disband, leaving only a small guard to protect the washavoki queen.

  As soon as Dar thought about her treaty, she began to wonder how it was being implemented. Even as it was announced, she had been succumbing to the mage’s poison. Her instructions to Zna-yat were simple: “Stay here and see my will is done.” Will he know what to do? He speaks only Orcish. Who will deal with Girta? Dar had expected Kovok-mah to do that, but he had left Taiben to give her healing magic. Then he had returned home.

  The more Dar considered the situation, the more precarious her accomplishment seemed. While she was recovering from her injury, it seemed that no one had followed events in Taiben. Dar had no idea what was happening there. All she knew was that the treaty was her responsibility. This is what it means to rule. Dar had a feeling that affairs in Taiben could easily slip into chaos. If they do, it’ll be my fault.

  Zna-yat stood in his rusty armor as one of the guards flanking the throne. He had been standing all afternoon, and he was bored. Washavokis came and went, babbling incomprehensibly to their great mother. Mingled with their reek, Zna-yat detected the scent of fear. He thought it was good that they were afraid; fear would make them less likely to attack the one he protected. As best as he could tell from overhearing the babble, she was either called “Quengirta” or “Yermajessy.” Perhaps she had two names. Washavokis were strange like that.

  Although Zna-yat disliked standing guard, as one who wore a leader’s cape he had to provide an example. Dargu wanted Quengirta and her child protected, so his duty was clear. He would keep them safe, and obey Quengirta also. The last task was difficult because she didn’t know the speech of mothers. Zna-yat had asked Garga-tok to teach her a few basic commands such as “kill” and “help.” I wish Kovok-mah was here, Zna-yat thought. He speaks with washavokis skillfully.

  Zna-yat suspected Garga-tok’s fluency was less than desired because Quengirta had yet to comply with most of his requests. The urkzimmuthi guards still lacked proper quarters within the palace. Their room was large enough, but it wasn’t round. The washavokis had been displeased when sons had hacked the boundary of Muth la’s Embrace into the wooden floor with their swords. Zna-yat had instructed
Garga-tok to explain the importance of the sacred circle, but the washavokis had shaped their mouths in the sign of anger. They were even more displeased when sons built a hearth in the circle’s center.

  There was also the incident of the hairy-faced washavokis who tried to serve food. A son nearly killed the first one that stepped inside Muth la’s Embrace. Zna-yat had prevented him from doing so, but trouble had ensued. When Garga-tok told Quengirta that sons must be served by mothers, she had replied that Dargu had sent them all away. That made little sense, for Dargu knew the proper way of doing things. Zna-yat could only conclude that the washavokis had misunderstood her. After much talk, woe mans were found to serve food. However, they smelled of fear and didn’t know what words to say. Garga-tok had tried to teach them, but it had gone poorly.

  Everything’s gone poorly since Dargu departed, thought Zna-yat. His chest was heavy, for he felt certain that Dargu was dead. That didn’t alter his obligations. Dargu had bitten his neck, which made his life hers. To Zna-yat’s thinking, it would always be hers. As long as he lived, he must strive to carry out her wishes.

  Zna-yat turned his attention to the washavoki babbling to Quengirta. Its ridiculous garments made it resemble a brightly colored bird. Even its sword had colored stones on its handle. Zna-yat wondered why washavokis made their weapons pretty and rudely wore them in their halls. He suspected it was because they liked killing. On impulse, Zna-yat bared his black teeth, exposing his fangs to the washavoki. Its neck jerked back, making it look even more like a bird. As the scent of its fear grew stronger, Zna-yat hissed softly. I probably shouldn’t scare it, he thought. Still, it was amusing.

  Zna-yat was glad when his watch finally ended and he could wash the reek of so many washavokis from his skin. Yet even bathing was a problem. Washavokis seldom bathed and lacked communal baths. Instead, they used vessels that fit only their small bodies. The sole basin large enough for a proper bath was in a hall where horses lived. Usually, its water bore a skin of ice. When Zna-yat returned to the urkzimmuthi living quarters, he shed his armor and his garments and headed for the basin.