After putting on her boots, Dar led the men through rubble-strewn hallways toward the kitchen. It lay in the older part of the hall, which seemed to have suffered less damage. Enough of its structure remained that Dar got her bearings. She gestured for the men to halt when she reached a roofless corridor just short of the kitchen’s entrance. “Kol could be in the next room,” Dar whispered to the tolum “Be warned, he’s probably not alone.”
“I know,” said Farnar.
“The mage has the power to…”
“Men,” shouted Farnar. “The traitor’s ahead. Slay him and all with him. Now move smart.”
The shieldron drew swords and rushed into the room. Dar listened for the sounds of combat, but for a while it was ominously quiet. Then she heard confused shouts and ringing swords. Anxious to see what was happening, Dar was about to peek through the doorway when she spied a better vantage point. Near the end of the corridor, a portion of the wall and ceiling had collapsed into a high mound of rubble. From its top, Dar would be out of the way while having a bird’s-eye view of the kitchen. She clambered up the pile of stones and peered into the room beyond.
The kitchen was huge. Though much of its floor was covered with fallen stone, a space remained clear. There, a bizarre drama was unfolding. Othar sat atop, not in his litter. Nearby, a large iron cauldron sat upon a fire. A black-robed man stirred it. Judging from the smell, whatever boiled within the vessel was inedible. Kol stood next to him with sword drawn, ready to defend him. He had positioned himself so his back was to Othar. There were other black-robed men, but they lay slain about the floor. Yet there was combat. To Dar’s amazement, Farnar’s shieldron was fighting itself.
The tolum led the assault against his soldiers. He fought vigorously, but without any sign of emotion. Those men who fought beside him were equally blank-faced as they murdered their comrades. One had an arm that was nearly severed; yet he seemed oblivious of the injury. With a shock, Dar realized that Othar was seizing the spirits of his attackers, transforming them into his protectors. Though outnumbered, Othar’s protectors were winning, for their former comrades seemed reluctant to fight them. Quickly, the dead outnumbered the living.
Eventually, the shieldron’s remaining men grasped their situation, and they fought with desperate intensity. More died on both sides. Sometimes, a man glanced at Othar, and instantly switched allegiance. Dar watched, appalled yet unable to look away. Soon only a dozen men remained fighting. Then seven. Then five.
Dar became aware that Othar was staring at her. After first spotting him, she had carefully avoided his eyes. Yet even without glancing in his direction, she felt his gaze. It was as immediate as a fire’s heat and just as physical. His hatred burned, commanding her to meet it. Dar was gripped by an irrational urge to glance into those scorching eyes. The urge was primal in its intensity, as strong as pain or hate and equally compelling. It took all of Dar’s will to resist it.
Another man died. Then another. The floor flowed with blood. A soldier slipped in it. The mishap cost him his life. Two soldiers remained—one expressionless and the other red-faced with fury. The furious man triumphed. He stood dazed and panting in a pool of crimson. Then Kol strode over and downed him with a single stroke. As the man fell with a splash, Kol grinned and gazed up at Dar. “I see you,” he said.
Dar scrambled down the pile of stones. Her clunky boots tripped her up, and she fell sprawling onto the blackened rumble. She hurt in half a dozen places, but she bolted upright to half run and half limp away. The walls of the storage rooms that had served the kitchen were still upright. Dar knew which room to enter. She darted into it. As she did, she heard Kol clamber down the rubble.
The room was empty, but it had once stored pashi. Because of this, there were openings in the base of its outer wall for ventilation. They were small, but large enough for Dar to squeeze through. She crouched before one. Its other side was covered with metal mesh. Dar kicked the mesh away, making more noise than she had hoped. Hearing rapid footsteps, she plunged into the opening. It was a tight squeeze. She was almost through when Kol grabbed her ankles. She slipped out of her boots and emerged on the other side of the wall. Discarding her overly long leggings, she hurried down the corridor. It was icy and difficult to negotiate barefoot.
Dar knew Kol couldn’t fit through the opening. That forced him to find another route into the corridor, giving her some time, but not much. I can’t outrun him forever, she thought, and he has a sword. Dar knew there was no escape, for Kol would never give up. One of them would have to die. It would be an uneven contest, so Dar concentrated on her few advantages. She knew the hall, and Kol didn’t. She also had a dagger. Dar recalled Sevren’s lessons: “There’s one time when you have an advantage over a swordsman. With a dagger, you can kill at a distance.” She also remembered his warning: “You only have one chance.”
An ambush seemed Dar’s only hope. Recalling that she had thrown a blade and hit Kol once before, she felt encouraged. Yet Dar was prudent enough to want an escape route if the throw went wide. Thus, she hurried toward the most ancient portion of the hall. The corridors there wiggled like snakes. Dar intended to surprise Kol at a bend, and duck into a room if she missed. The whole area was a warren of hanmuthis interconnected by small rooms and short passageways. Dar knew that maze, for the memories of former queens hadn’t faded entirely.
Since she was bait for the ambush, Dar ensured her trail was easy to follow. Being barefoot made her silent. Kol was not. His iron-studded boots gave him sure footing, but their steps were loud. Dar heard them echo between stone walls. As the steps sounded closer, Dar detected a fainter sound, a soft metallic one. Chain mail! I’ll have to hit his throat! She was considering fleeing when Kol rounded the curve.
Instinct took over. Without reflection, Dar threw her dagger. It flew from her hand with deadly force. The gleaming blade flipped in the air, a blur of motion. Then it struck hard in the center of Kol’s chest. It remained there a moment, then fell to the floor. Kol grinned and bent to pick it up.
Forty-nine
The walls muffled Kol’s laughter, but it still seemed loud to Dar. “Do you have another blade or was this your only one?” By the confident sound of Kol’s gait, Dar knew he had guessed the answer. “Don’t fret. You’ll see your blade again. I’ll use it to slice off your nose. You’re Othar’s meat, but appearance doesn’t interest him.”
Dar crept from one burnt room to another, careful to be silent. She tried to leave no trace, but that was difficult. Open to the sky, the chambers and hallways were brightly lit. Soot and snow often worked together to make her footprints obvious. Dar’s feet stung from the cold, making her less agile.
Dar realized that the slain soldiers’ weapons were in the kitchen. But Othar’s there also, and he’s not alone. Dar wondered if Kol’s plan was to drive her toward him. She speculated on the purpose for the simmering cauldron. Perhaps it’s meant for me! Images of boiling alive made Dar retreat farther from the kitchen.
Dar was clever prey, but Kol was an accomplished hunter. She eluded him, but he never lost her trail for long. They moved through the desolate hall as a pair, sometimes far apart, sometimes close. Concentration caused Dar to lose track of time. Every movement was crucial, for any misstep left clues. Her icy feet began to bleed, making footprints more conspicuous. She sensed her time was running out.
Dar passed through an archway and was surprised to see that Muth la’s Dome stood intact. In my vision, it collapsed. This puzzled her, and she thought it might be significant. The structure stood apart from the surrounding hall, and though a nearby wall had collapsed, the dome was remarkably preserved. Even its wooden door was unscorched. Thinking the dome might offer a refuge, Dar walked over to the door and opened it. She hoped that it might bolt from the inside, but there was only a bolt on its exterior.
Dar turned to leave and saw her footprints leading to the door. The fire had reduced the weedy courtyard to a bed of ash covered by a thin skin of snow. Dar’s fo
otsteps had made a dark and bold trail to the doorway. The door swung outward, and Dar opened it all the way to hide the exterior bolt. She stepped into the dome, halting on the stairs leading downward. Then Dar began walking backward, carefully placing her feet into the old footprints.
It was slow, careful work, and Dar was aware that Kol could appear any instant. If he did, she was doomed to an agonizing death. I can’t think of that. These footprints must match. Dar took the time to make sure they did. She reached the archway and made a few additional conspicuous prints. Afterward, she carefully made her way to where the wall had collapsed, stepping on the fallen stones to avoid leaving prints. Every step was agonizing, but that didn’t deter her. Dar hid in the rubble, removing her cloak to wrap around her frozen, bleeding feet. Then she waited. That was all she could do.
Kol had ceased making taunts. Instead, he tried to focus on the chase. It wasn’t easy, for rage fought with concentration. He had risen so high—almost within grasp of the crown—and Dar had dashed it from him. Kol was so infuriated that he toyed with the idea of killing her himself. Forget Othar! Yet, even as Kol had that thought, he knew he couldn’t. Enemies surrounded him. Othar was a dangerous ally, but he was his only ally. Dar will be my gift to him.
Nevertheless, Kol kept envisioning using the blade on Dar’s face. Other places, too. The images were so compelling that he would lose her trail and have to backtrack. Yet pursuit became easier as time passed. Dar showed signs of wearing out. She left more prints and the prints grew bloody. Though tracks on rubble piles were hard to spot, Dar walked on them ever less frequently. Too rough on her dainty feet, thought Kol. As the prospect of her capture drew near, the chase became fun. It reminded him of the sport he had in the orc regiment where the branded women had no chance. Just like you, Dar. Just like you.
When Kol passed through an archway and spotted a line of footprints, he knew the game was over. The trail led into the dome but not out of it. He doubted the solitary building had another exit. He strode over to see. She went inside, all right. Kol stepped into the dome. A stairway descended into a single room. It was illuminated by a small hole in the center of the ceiling. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Kol looked about the room. There’s no way out. She’s still in here. Though the room lacked hiding places, it was shadowy close to the walls. Kol smiled, thinking of Dar sheltered only by darkness. Not for long. You’re mine. He descended the stairs, relishing the ominous quality of his footsteps. Then the door slammed behind him.
Dar slid the bolt on the door and began piling stones against it. The oak in the door was thicker than a hand’s length and hard as iron, but Dar wanted the reassurance of stone. She carried large blocks barefoot through snow, and it was satisfying. Only when a substantial pile pressed against the door did she climb the dome to reach the hole in its roof. The thick stones of the ancient dome had retained some of the fire’s heat. They felt soothingly warm to Dar’s aching feet.
The interior of the dome looked pitch-black. Dar couldn’t see Kol, but she could hear him. He was hacking at the door with his sword. Dar heard the blade snap, and Kol let loose a string of curses. She waited for him to quiet down. “It’s no use, General Kol,” she said, giving the rank a mocking inflection. “You’re in sacred space, where the World’s Mother is commander.”
“Tup your World’s Mother!”
“That’s not the proper attitude. This dome’s for contemplation, and you’ve much to contemplate.”
“Othar will set me free.”
“I think not. You were his tool, nothing more. He used you like you used that sword. Who saves a broken blade?”
“I’m not broken yet!”
“You’ve been broken for years.” Dar saw the stone cover for the opening and began to push it over the hole. The heavy cover was hard to move. “Think about those you wronged. Loral. Frey. Twea. All those you sent to the Dark Path.” The cover got stuck, and Dar changed position so she could tug it over the opening. She called down the partly covered hole. “Darkness will help you concentrate.”
A voice screamed from below, “Dar!”
A dagger flew past Dar’s face, nearly grazing it. She flung herself back as the blade lost its momentum and tumbled down, striking the dome and skittering to the ground below. Dar’s sudden movement loosened a block at the hole’s edge. Perhaps the fire had weakened the stone’s mortar; perhaps another force was at work. Either way, the block teetered for a moment, then crashed to the floor below. A second stone fell. Dar’s vision had shown her what would happen next. The hole enlarged as the stones encircling it tumbled down. Dar slid down the dome’s side and dashed from it before turning to see it crumble. The roar of the dome’s collapse was followed by eerie stillness.
Gorm sweated as he stirred the cauldron. Foul steam saturated his sleeves, scalding him. Despite the pain, he continued to stir, certain both his life and soul depended on it. He paused only to scoop blood from the floor with his cupped hands and dump it into the cauldron. That ingredient was new, causing Othar to ask, “What’s that for?”
“Shhh!”
“Don’t shush me! When did you start doing magic?”
“Long before your mother breeched you.”
“What’s that brew for?” asked Othar.
“Assurance.”
“Against what?”
“Shut up! I need to hear.” Gorm cocked his ear, as if listening to a conversation in an adjacent room. After a spell of silence, he said, “Kol has failed.” Gorm tensed, as though expecting a sudden blow. After a long moment, he relaxed and assumed the appearance of one who has received a reprieve.
Othar stared at Gorm in puzzlement. “How do you know?”
“I was just told.”
“Now what?”
“It was all or naught. Well, it’s naught.” Gorm resumed stirring. When a loud rumble resounded through the hall, he appeared unsurprised.
“What was that?” asked Othar.
“Kol just died.”
“And Dar still lives?”
“Aye.”
“Get her! She must die, too!”
“I shall serve my master,” replied Gorm.
“Then do it! I want her.”
“You were never my master. I told you that. You were only its vessel.”
“But your master and I are inseparable.”
Gorm reached into his robe and pulled out a black sack, its fabric stitched with spells. “You’ve been deemed inadequate. My master must retrench.” Gorm strode over to the litter and lifted Othar. The mage struggled in his grasp, but feebly with leaden limbs.
“Retrench?” said the mage with rising terror. “What do you mean?”
“It must return to the bones.”
“It can’t. Dar destroyed them.”
“Aye, she did,” said Gorm. “But you possess a set.” Then he threw the mage into the cauldron.
The mage’s dying shriek echoed through the ruined hall. Though horrible, it reassured Dar. She headed for its source with no idea what she would find, but certain her peril had diminished. Nevertheless, she peered through the kitchen’s entrance cautiously. She saw that the black-robed man still stirred the cauldron. His hands were bloody. While she watched, he used the metal stirring paddle to fish something from the pot. It was Othar’s robe. Dumping the sopping garment on the floor, the man probed its steaming folds and plucked out a bone, which he quickly tossed into the cauldron before it burned his fingers.
Dar stepped into the room. Its blood-puddled floor felt unnaturally warm to her bare feet. “Who are you?” she asked, brandishing the dagger Kol had thrown at her.
The man eyed the blade nonchalantly. “A servant. My name is Gorm.”
Dar changed her grip on the dagger to the throwing position. “Othar’s servant?”
“Never his.”
“Then whose?”
“It doesn’t have a name yet. It won’t have one for ages.”
“Yet it’s unholy, I know that.”
&nbs
p; “Unholy?” said Gorm. “I’m not so sure. Is divinity benign?” He resumed his stirring. “You’re thinking of killing me, aren’t you?” He smiled. “Can you kill what’s in this pot?”
“What’s in there?”
“Bones.”
“Then they’re my enemy,” said Dar. “I’ve been warned.”
“They were your enemy, but you subdued them.”
“By stopping Kol?”
“By stopping war. My master thrives on slaughter.”
“I know. He wished to slaughter me.”
“That was Othar,” said Gorm. “Revenge always goaded him best. Perhaps your death would have reversed his fortunes, perhaps not. Now it’s too late to tell.”
“So all that remains is to destroy the bones.”
“Their power can’t perish. You know that. Be content that you’ve subdued it awhile.” Gorm sighed wearily. “A very long while.”
“Yet I can’t let evil abide.”
“The Creator does. Who are you to question her? She made men, and men nourish darkness.”
Once again, Dar considered killing the man. He probably deserves it. But she sensed he was being truthful; murder was no cure for evil. Only light banishes darkness. Dar dropped Kol’s dagger in the blood and walked away.
Fifty
Dar found her boots where Kol had thrown them. She retrieved the leggings, wrapped her bloody feet, and put on the footwear. Then she descended the mountain by the same trail that the fleeing mothers had used. She found Skymere and Foeslayer still tied where she and Girta had left them. Dar mounted Skymere and rode toward the orc encampment, leading Foeslayer by his reins.
[Queen of Orcs 03] - Royal Destiny Page 34
