[Queen of Orcs 03] - Royal Destiny

by Morgan Howell

  “This is how orcs repay goodness,” said General Kol, his voice choked with outrage. “This is how they honor treaties.” He took the prince’s hand. “Come from this awful place, wiser about your foe. Your mother will be interred with solemn splendor. Those men who fell here will receive full honors. Songs and tales will recount their bravery. We’ll burn the orcs like garbage.”

  Kol led the prince to another room with a wide window that overlooked the city. In the storm, Taiben seemed a phantom realm. Kol had a servant bring the boy a goblet of hot spiced wine, sweetened with honey. He watched the prince drink and waited for color to return to his face. When it did, Kol spoke. “The orcs are fleeing in that storm, thinking they’ll be safe in their warm halls. War’s hard in the winter. The weather’s harsh, and the roads are slippery. But it’ll be even harder on the orcs. When we drive them from their halls, they’ll have no refuge. They can’t eat snow, nor dwell in it.”

  The prince’s eyes widened. “War?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty. Were not the orcs’ deeds war? Would you have them go unpunished?”

  “Never!”

  “Your mother spoke of your ancestor, Theodric Goblin Slayer. She said he was your age when he guided men to a nest of orcs. They slew them all—bulls, sows, and whelps—and helped bring peace to a ravaged land. Theodric’s blood flows in your veins. I sense his courage in you.”

  Kol suddenly knelt before the prince. “Soon you’ll be my king, and all the realm will kneel as I do now. When they do, think how Theodric would repay your mother’s death. All true men share your grief and anger. Say the word, and they’ll fight for you. Call for war! We’ll ride together and rid the realm of orcs.”

  “And their queen, too?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty. She’ll burn for her treachery.”

  The first troops reached Taiben by early afternoon. Kol ordered them to march into the palace courtyard, where they stood in ranks to be addressed by the newly crowned Kregant III. The child king’s voice was swallowed by the storm, and the soldiers didn’t know they were going to war until officers told them and ordered them to cheer. Having been promised brandy, the men cheered loudly. Then they marched to the empty garrison outside the city.

  Dar was right about Kol’s habit of planning in advance. He had begun gathering men and supplies for an invasion as soon as he was made a general. Since troops were not stationed within the capital, the buildup had been easy to hide from Queen Girta. Most of the units had assembled in far-flung garrisons. General Voltar had issued the orders, to disguise Kol’s involvement. The men in the snowy square had known something was afoot for weeks. They had not known when they were going to war, but few were surprised that they were.

  At the coronation feast, General Kol presented King Kregant III with a suit of armor. Its black helmet was embellished with gold and the chain mail fit his small frame perfectly. By then, Kol was no longer the Queen’s Man, but Commander of His Majesty’s Army. The black-garbed guardsmen were renamed the King’s Men, but their duties remained the same. Within their ranks, the Iron Circle was gratified by Kol’s rise and the prospect of plunder and advancement. All agreed, as they toasted their new king, that their night’s labors had paid off handsomely.

  While Kol feasted, Dar led the orcs through the storm. She was exhausted and miserable, but she grimly slogged through the calf-high snow, too anxious to stop. Zna-yat walked in front of her to make a path, and after it grew dark, Dar relied on her brother’s eyes to help find the way. Neither he nor any of the other orcs had ever traveled the Old Road. Zna-yat relied on Dar’s description of the route, a description she had obtained from the lorekeeper.

  Snow hid most traces of the abandoned roadway, and visibility was poor. The foothills seemed more like vague presences than features of earth and stone. However, since the road would intersect a river and follow it into the mountains, Dar didn’t worry about losing the way. She was more concerned about being overtaken by soldiers. Accordingly, she had the orcs walk single file and drag pine boughs to obscure their tracks. With luck, snow and wind would obliterate them entirely.

  Sevren had not caught up with them, so Dar had no idea what was going on elsewhere. Where’s Kol? she wondered. Has the invasion started? Did Lama-tok and Ven-goth make it through the pass, or will we be fleeing to Kol’s waiting army? Each question spawned more until Dar was overwhelmed by all the dire possibilities. She forced herself to focus on the immediate future. That seemed daunting enough. They would have to stop soon, and Dar weighed risking a fire. Being spotted was a danger, but so was freezing.

  Dar spoke to Zna-yat. “We must find campsite, somewhere our fire cannot be seen.”

  Zna-yat peered about the darkness. “I see no such place.”

  “Then we must continue onward until you do.”

  Zna-yat kept walking until Dar feared she would drop in her tracks. At last he said, “I see likely spot.”

  “Then we’ll rest there,” said Dar, who could see little more than falling snow, its flakes gray in the darkness.

  Zna-yat veered sharply to the right. Soon, Dar could see snow-laden trees on either side of a fold in a foothill. When the fold became a winding ravine, Zna-yat halted. “Muth Mauk, is this good place?”

  “Hai, it’s perfect,” said Dar. She called out, “We’ll stay here tonight. Gather wood for fire. Set up shelters.”

  The orcs found a spot of level ground to erect their shelters, which resembled conical haystacks. They were just large enough to accommodate a son sitting cross-legged. Though orcs slept sitting up, Girta could not, and Dar wondered how she would rest. She walked over to the stretcher to see how the queen was faring. She was still bundled up, and Kovok-mah was beside her. “How is washavoki queen?” Dar asked.

  “I gave her large nayimgat leaf to chew,” replied Kovok-mah. “She’ll sleep until tomorrow. When sun rises, I’ll have better idea how she’s healing.”

  “She can’t sleep outside in this cold.”

  “Your sister spoke with me. She said queen will rest in your brother’s shelter.”

  “Poor Zna,” said Dar. “Does he know how bad this washavoki smells?”

  Kovok-mah made a wry face. “Everyone does.”

  “Muth Mauk,” said Zna-yat. “We’ll soon be making porridge. How should we ration it?”

  “For five more days of travel,” replied Dar. Just saying those words disheartened her. Where will our foes be in five days? Inside my clan’s hall? As she had all day, Dar tried to push that thought from her mind. She found it impossible. She recalled her vision of the burning hall with distressing vividness. It had haunted her most of the march. Pushed to her limits, Dar felt crushed by foreboding. Without another word, she wandered away from camp until she rounded a bend and was out of sight.

  When she was alone, Dar surrendered to her grief. She didn’t permit herself to cry, but hot tears flowed down her frigid cheeks. Then she heard quiet footsteps and turned to see Nir-yat approach. Dar hastily wiped her eyes. Nir-yat said nothing; she simply embraced Dar. Wrapped in her sister’s arms, Dar began to sob.

  The two stood together for a long while. Eventually, Dar cried herself out with a shuddering sigh. “Muthuri was right,” she said. “I should have passed Fathma to another.”

  “Then no urkzimmuthi would suffer on this cold night,” replied Nir-yat. “We would be content, like fattened lambs before feast. We would have different great mother, but Black Washavoki wouldn’t be different, and we’d be doomed.”

  “I think it’s my deeds that have doomed us.”

  “So you’re responsible for all evil in this world?” said Nir-yat. “Should I blame you for this storm? Was it you who made washavokis cruel?”

  “I haven’t made things better. I’ve made them worse.”

  “I think not. At least now, we’re aware of our danger. And so is washavoki queen.”

  “I’m afraid our foe is too great for me.”

  “This has been terrible day for us all, but especial
ly for you,” said Nir-yat. “I know you didn’t sleep last night. Now you’re exhausted, cold, and hungry. Will you do something for me?”

  “What?”

  “Share Kovok-mah’s shelter.”

  “I can’t. You know why.”

  “I know you need rest,” said Nir-yat. “How will you get it lying alone on ground?”

  “But…”

  “I’ve already told my cousin he must shelter you. Would you have him disobey me?”

  “Nir, is it wise?”

  “Hai. Very wise. I’ll challenge anyone who questions my judgment.” She gave Dar an understanding look. “Even if she were great mother. Come, Sister. There’s fire, and soon there’ll be food. Afterward, you must rest.”

  The road leading to the pass dropped off steeply on either side. This exposed it to the wind, which blew so hard that the snow often flew horizontally. It obliterated Lama-tok’s and Ven-goth’s footprints almost as soon as they were made. The orcs’ windward sides were crusted with snow by the time they neared the narrow passage through the ridge. Though it promised shelter from the storm, the two orcs halted and peered at it cautiously. In the dark, it resembled a thick black line painted on the wall of icy rock. Even the orcs’ keen eyes couldn’t penetrate its dark interior. Snow was mounded against its entrance in a drift that the wind reshaped as they watched.

  “Washavokis are no match for this weather,” said Ven-goth. “Come. Let’s get out of it awhile.”

  Lama-tok didn’t move. “Do you smell smoke?”

  Ven-goth sniffed the turbulent air. “Thwa.”

  “I thought I did, but now I don’t. I guess it’s safe.”

  The two orcs slogged through the deep snow toward the pass. They were only a few paces from its entrance when an arch of arrows streamed from its dark interior. Both orcs were hit. Lama-tok was pierced through his thigh and dropped to the ground. Ven-goth stood a little longer, then he fell also.

  Without rising, Lama-tok groped behind his leg until he felt the arrowhead protruding from it. He snapped it off, then grabbed the feathered shaft that jutted from the front of his thigh and pulled it out. Blood warmed both sides of his leg. Arrows still flew overhead, but the deep snow hid him, and the washavokis seemed to be shooting blindly. They remained hidden within the dark pass, apparently afraid to venture into sight. Lama-tok slithered on his belly toward Ven-goth. “Are you badly wounded?”

  “I’m not sure. I think so.”

  Ven-goth had rolled on his back. Three arrows protruded from his torso. “Lie still,” said Lama-tok. “I’ll pull you to safety.” He grabbed Ven-goth’s ankles, and crawling on his elbows and knees, dragged him backward. It was difficult and slow work. Excruciating pains shot through Lama-tok’s thigh every time he moved it. Nevertheless, he made progress. It became easier when he reached the road’s sloping side. After a while, he was able to slide downward with little effort, pulling Ven-goth behind him.

  When he decided it was safe, Lama-tok stood to examine his companion. Ven-goth was breathing with gurgling gasps. A bloody froth issued from his lips.

  “Lama?” said Ven-goth. “I can’t see you.”

  “I’m here, Ven.”

  “Ask Muth Mauk…let Fre-pah know…last thoughts of her.”

  “When I get through pass, I will.”

  “Too many…washavokis!”

  “There were many arrows. Perhaps not so many washavokis. I’ll wait awhile, then approach unseen. They can’t surprise me twice.”

  “But…if you fail…”

  “Speak of Fre-pah. Is she pretty?”

  “Hai. And wise.”

  “She was wise to love you, Ven.”

  “Thwa. I was wise…to love her.”

  Ven-goth breathed a while longer, but he lacked the breath to speak again. After he died, Lama-tok honored him. He carried his body away from the pass until he found a tree clinging to the steep hillside. He marked Muth la’s Embrace beneath it. Then Lama-tok removed his friend’s clothing so he might leave the world as he had entered it. Lastly, he placed Ven-goth within the sacred circle.

  After this was done, Lama-tok limped slowly toward the pass, taking care to keep out of view. He was in no hurry. Let washavokis think I’m dead, he thought. He smiled, recalling it was Dar who had taught him how to think like a wolf. Tonight he would apply her lessons. He hoped his body was up to it. His blood-soaked leggings had frozen, and his thigh was stiffening also. Hugging the ridge, Lama-tok made his way to the passageway that his clan had cut into its face. It was well past midnight when he finally reached it. He paused to rest and gather his courage. Then he drew his sword and charged into the dark opening.

  Forty

  General Kol awoke and bolted upright, his dagger drawn and ready. A shadowed figure stood in his bedchamber, just beyond striking distance. “Good reflexes, General.”

  “Gorm! How’d you get in here?”

  “Don’t blame your guards. Few intruders possess my skills.”

  Kol uneasily speculated on what those skills might be, and Gorm answered as if he had read the general’s thoughts. “They’re unharmed. I’ll revive them when I leave.”

  “So you sneaked in to congratulate me?” asked Kol in a sarcastic tone.

  “Congratulate you? Why would I do that?”

  “I got Othar his war. He should be satisfied.”

  “You presume too much,” replied Gorm in a cold voice. “My master is far from satisfied. Declarations don’t spill blood. Swords do. When they reap a harvest, you may rest easier, not until then.”

  “That will happen soon enough.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as all my troops gather. They’re dispersed, and travel’s slow.”

  “Delay! Always delay!”

  “Does Othar want me to deliver a slap or an ax stroke? I can harass the orcs or I can massacre them. Slaughter requires overwhelming numbers, and I must marshal them. Can you fly troops here by magic or must they march through deep snow?”

  “You grow overproud, General.”

  “I’m smart, not proud. Your bloody harvest requires blades. I’m gathering them as fast as I can.”

  “So we won’t march until they all arrive,” said Gorm, clearly unhappy with the news.

  “What do you mean by we?”

  “My master and I will accompany you.”

  “And how will I explain his presence to the king?”

  “You needn’t alarm the boy. We’ll follow behind. Before you march, send nine men to Balten’s residence. They need only be strong and healthy. Otherwise, they can be dregs and malcontents.” Gorm smiled grimly. “Othar will render them obedient.”

  “Why would Othar suffer campaigning in the winter?” asked Kol, not relishing the idea of the mage accompanying him, even at a distance.

  “The nearer he is to slaughter, the more he benefits. My master has fasted far too long. He’s ravenous.”

  As before, Kol thought he caught an edge of fear in Gorm’s voice. “You’ll get your men,” he said, “and Othar will get his carnage.”

  “Don’t fail,” replied Gorm. “There’s a force abroad more powerful than one man’s sorcery. Provoke it, and even death won’t save you from its malice.”

  “Dar provoked your master, not I. And I’ll soon deliver her to him.”

  Dar awoke warm within Kovok-mah’s arms. She heard the wind blowing outside the reed shelter, but covered by her cloak, she was snug against Kovok-mah’s chest. Reluctantly, she reached out and parted the reeds just enough to glimpse the light of early dawn. She withdrew her arm back under the cloak. Dar sighed and began groping for her boots. Then the arm about her waist tightened ever so slightly. “Dargu,” whispered Kovok-mah.

  “Hai?”

  “Is it wrong that I wish you to stay?”

  “Thwa,” Dar whispered back. Not wise, but not wrong. She sighed again. “I wish to stay also.”

  “But you think it’ll cause trouble.”

  Dar reflected that it coul
d. So what? she thought. What’s this transgression compared to the calamities ahead? “My sister was wise to say you must shelter me and to send me to you. I’m at peace this morning.”

  “I am, too. You give me strength, Dargu. You always have.”

  Dar surrendered to her heart’s desire, and rested a while longer in Kovok-mah’s arms. She rose only when she heard others stirring about the camp. Emerging from the shelter, she found it half buried in snow. Nir-yat was up and directing activities. There was a fire burning, and a son tended a kettle on it. “Heat it slowly,” said Nir-yat. “I want that porridge thawed, not burned.” When she spied Dar, she spoke to another son. “Have Zna-yat take washavoki queen to Kovok-mah.” As the son went on his errand, Nir-yat smiled at Dar. “You looked rested.”

  Dar’s principal recollections of the previous evening were of discouragement and exhaustion. She remembered crying, eating, and falling asleep in Kovok-mah’s shelter; the rest was hazy. Dar realized that her sister must have organized everything. From the appearance of the camp, she had done it well. Nir-yat bowed to Dar, then approached her. “Sentries have spotted no washavokis.”

  “You posted sentries?”

  “Hai, Muth Mauk. There were not enough shelters, so I had sons sleep in rotation.”

  “But not Kovok-mah.”

  “He was busy healing.”

  “Healing?”

  “Hai,” replied Nir-yat. “Not only flesh can be wounded. Spirits can be injured as well.” She scrutinized Dar. “You look better, but I think you’ll need further healing.”

  Dar smiled. “Since when have you become healer?”

  “Since you bit my neck, I’ve discovered many skills.”

  Zna-yat walked by carrying an unconscious Girta, and Dar followed him to Kovok-mah’s shelter. Nir-yat came also and stayed as Kovok-mah examined the queen. The arrowhead had been a broad one, and the wound it made had required stitches. Kovok-mah looked at the sutured gash and sniffed it. Then he removed some dried herbs from his healer’s pouch, chewed them, and spit herb-laced saliva on the wound. Afterward, he spit out the herbs and made a face. “Water!”