by Lee Ramsay
The huntsman pressed his palm to the wood. Vibrations grated through the door as hidden bolts withdrew. A moment later, the portal swung inward on silent hinges. Ducking beneath the arched lintel, he stepped into Ankara’s laboratory.
Sathra’s laboratory, he corrected himself.
The foyer was an opulent study dominated by a fine-grained rowan desk. Floor to ceiling bookcases lined the walls; Urzgeth had stood near them once, and did his best to avoid them. A number of the books were bound in midnight blue; even at a remove of several paces, an unnatural chill flowed from the black lettering. Yet more books were bound in black, the silver-threaded runes embroidered into their spines radiating an unpleasant, burning warmth.
Books written in Ankara’s hand filled the two bookcases immediately behind the desk. He knew the origin of these, having seen the ancient sorceress building one when he was younger. Wrinkled and yellowing, the leather covers were taken from the hides of those who had displeased the sorceress; the vellum pages were made from human intestines, and the brown ink was based in blood. Cardamom’s lingering, smoky scent clung to the bindings, and the slight points of his ears twitched with the whispers rising from the closed pages.
He turned the lantern’s knob so that the burner issued little more than a blue flame and set his lamp beside the door as it closed and locked behind him.
He schooled his face into impassive lines as he stepped around the desk and into an arched passage winding through a complex of storerooms and side chambers. A doorway to his left opened on a vast chamber that echoed with his footsteps; from the dry odors of parchment, ink, leather, and old dust, the room held yet more books. On his right was a smaller room, filled floor to ceiling with cubbies storing scrolls. Another chamber held twisted, misshapen skeletons of beasts that boggled the mind to behold, some with teeth as long as the huntsman’s forearm. A separate room was perfectly circular, a complex silver pattern inlaid into the obsidian floor tiles.
Storerooms held stockpiles of powdered and liquid chemicals, as well as dried herbs and other plants. He passed yet another room, the towering walls inscribed with fine lettering tracing the genealogy of every existing family in Anahar. Other chambers were artifacts from those Houses Ankara had destroyed.
He loathed the place, and wished to complete his report and return the fresh air and sunlight of the castle proper. Golden flames in grotesque candelabra came close to guttering with the speed of the huntsman’s passage as he followed Sathra’s scent of cinnamon, roses, and milk deeper into the laboratory. He caught other feminine scents as well, and his brow wrinkled at the presence of others.
The hallway’s terminus was another ironwood door, which opened into a spacious workroom. He knew no dangerous enchantments were being worked on the other side of the featureless wood; had there been, he would not have caught Sathra’s scent as wards would have sealed the chamber. Even so, his bearded face tightened as he lay his hand on the gray wood, anticipating a violent shock and the stench of his burning flesh.
As with the laboratory’s entrance, he felt the scrape of bolts retracting. An air current stirred his hair as the ironwood swung open and the pressure equalized between the laboratory and the hall.
For a moment, he saw little but vague shapes in the gloom. Huge stone tables lined one wall, beakers and flasks with strange liquids bubbling above oil-fueled burners. Steam ran through straight and spiraling glass tubes, and condensation dripped into smaller containers holding powders or other liquids. Chemical reactions issued soft glows and, in several instances, smoke. Copper hoods hanging from the ceiling collected vapors and funneled them through thin pipes to vents on the mountain’s surface.
Though he cared little for magic beyond the runes enhancing his senses and body, Urzgeth understood the basic principles of enchantment and alchemy. While others of his kind disdained the practice beneath them, he recognized that what he did not understand could kill him. He had no concept of what Sathra was doing; however, he realized that the alchemical rigging sprawling across the tables employed dozens of catalyst compounds, chemicals, plant extracts, and metals. The end result was a foul-smelling red substance dripping like congealing blood into a single flask.
“Impressive, is it not?” Sathra’s voice said from the gloom.
“Never have I seen anything so elaborate. Ankara was the greatest mind I have ever known. If ever she experimented at this level of complexity, I do not recall it.”
“This is why I appreciate you, my friend. I can’t trust anyone else with knowledge of this room – not without rishka. Though you may not comprehend all you see, I can at least speak with you about it. It is indeed an experiment, and one which is nearing completion. You have returned in time to witness the result.” There was a brief pause and the rustle of fabric. “Come, sit with me. We have much to discuss.”
The alpha tore his eyes from the complicated apparatus and moved toward the simple, high-backed chair situated near the back of the laboratory. Three women moved around an upright, rectangular iron box, their eyes glazed over and faces slack with rishka’s telltale signs. Dozens of what appeared to Urzgeth to be spigots festooned the metal container. Some were small, with empty vials inverted over knobs; others were large, the flow of viscous liquids controlled by valves marked with precise gradations. A servant altered the liquids’ flow as he watched, turning the valves and knobs in a specific order.
The hairs on his nape rose, though he could not place why. “What is this?”
Sathra smiled and gestured to the footstool in front of her. “In time, my friend.”
The alpha eased himself to the round seat and cataloged the changes the grand duchess had experienced in his absence. Gone was the lissome young woman she had been when he departed; the sleek curves of hip and breast had been replaced with the fullness of a woman nearing the end of pregnancy. There was a roundness to her cheeks absent during her early gravidity, and plumpness had spread to her fingers, hands, and wrists. Thickened and more lustrous, the loose tumble of mahogany hair accentuated her features while hiding the slight discoloration where her milk seeped through her amber gown. “I would have thought you to be abed so close to the coming of your child.”
“Would that he was born by now,” Sathra said ruefully, caressing the silk stretched taut across her belly. “He comes late to the world and rides uneasily – depriving me of rest. The sooner he is born, the sooner I can recover and bring forth a daughter to secure the throne.”
“Have there been rumors of plots against the throne while I have been away?”
“There are always plots. Under Ankara, they rarely progressed beyond rumors. There have been two attempts on my life already.” She flicked her fingers to encompass the laboratory. “To tell you truly, I feel secure here – at least for the moment.”
“I still don’t understand why you chose to keep the child.” The alpha rested his elbows on his knees as he hooked the heels of his boots over the uppermost rung securing the stool’s legs. “Had you terminated it before I left, you might have been pregnant anew.”
“Provided I found a suitable father.”
“Was Marcus not a seemly candidate?”
“He was capable and eager enough. A pity he was so insistent. He grew tiresome.” Her lip twisted into a sardonic smile, and she brushed away the discussion with a flick of her fingers. “It is good that you have returned. There are things we must do to secure the throne until I birth an heiress. Let us talk, however, about your mission. Were you successful?”
“In a manner of speaking. Of the fourteen that escaped, eight are dead. Shamar, Ryzam, and Drazzag are dead as well.”
“That is an average of two kills per Dushken. I expected better from experienced huntsmen.”
“You did say you wanted prisoners. A live capture is more dangerous than a dead one.”
“Am I to assume, then, that you have brought at least the boy back alive?”
He gave a slow shake of the head. “You would assume incorrect
ly.”
“He was half dead,” Sathra snapped, gripping the arms of her chair. “Damn you, Urzgeth, I wanted him brought back!”
“Why? Beyond his stubbornness, he was nothing special. I am no expert, but he didn’t strike me as particularly attractive.” The aged Dushken’s eyebrows knit in confusion in the face of the young sorceress’s fury, then smoothed as a thought occurred to him. “Unless you found him appealing enough to father a daughter as well?”
Sathra cast the huntsman a withering glance and levered herself to her feet. She waddled toward the iron box with her hands pressed to the small of her back. “It is a matter of security.”
“How? Ankara is dead. If the boy knew anything of use, it died with her. If security was a concern, I could have killed him.”
The new grand duchess stared at the iron box and said nothing for long moments. “What I can’t understand is how he escaped. He shouldn’t have been able to get loose from the cell Ankara had sealed him in, much less slip his chains. I know the torture she inflicted; if he were able to free himself, why did he wait so long?”
Urzgeth rose to his feet. “He was in the company of the Ghost of Feinthresh.”
“You mean the Mouse of Feinthresh,” Sathra said with a disdainful chuckle. “How long has it been since the girl was last captured?”
“Two years, maybe three. I thought she had crawled off and died. Imagine my surprise when I caught her scent while hunting the boy. Perhaps she was responsible for his getting free.”
The woman sucked her teeth. “Possibly. So, the little rat found her way out. Where did they go?”
“Caer Ravvos. They almost didn’t make it, thanks to the Horned Knight.”
“You saw him?”
Urzgeth nodded, face paling behind his beard. “He was driven off. The boy took injury. I lingered as long as I dared to see if he left the town of Wenggen, but with the Horned Knight having been seen so far south, I was nearly caught by increased Troppenheim patrols. The Ravvosi have joined with them to secure the Ossifor, though I believe that is as far as they have allied.”
“Damn.”
“Give me leave to outfit myself and a few other Dushken, and we can track the boy and the girl. All I ask is leave to kill the Hillffolk to account for my son’s death.”
“Not now.” Sathra’s lips pressed in a thin line, her hand upheld to stall Urzgeth’s protest. “We will find them in time. For now, my hold on the throne is too tenuous. If House Sheranath is to hold Anahar, I will need you and the other Dushken to defeat the plots against me.”
A frustrated growl resonated in the Dushken’s chest. “We are not enforcers!”
Sathra stepped toward him, her expression cold and steel in her voice. “I am the Grand Duchess of Anahar. You will do as you are bid.”
The central rune in the brands set into the alpha’s forehead and temples flared with molten fire. The huntsman sagged to his knees. His vision blurred, and acid soured his tongue as he pressed his forehead against the cool stone. “Yes, Your Grace.”
With a flick of her hand, the young sorceress canceled the enchantment which felled him. She turned away, the hem of her gown whispering against the floor as she approached the iron box. “Worry not, my friend. If the results of this experiment are what I anticipate, you will be doing more hunting than enforcing for some time to come.”
Echoes of pain reverberated through Urzgeth’s skull as he pushed himself to his feet. He tugged his coat into place and stepped to a position behind the grand duchess’ shoulder. “Perhaps you would care to explain?”
Sathra’s eyes flicked from one vial to the next and from beaker to beaker as she spoke, watching as the last of the fluids drained into the spigots connected to the metal container. “Some time ago, I discovered a book. It was small and very old, more of a journal than anything, and written in Ankara’s hand.”
“A journal from when Ankara was truly young?”
The grand duchess nodded. “There were other entries as well – masculine, and in a different language. Though I recognized that it was written in Meridan, it took me months to identify the dialect – and more months to translate what was written.
“Seban Terador is brilliant,” Sathra admitted, cradling her belly as the baby shifted. “Though much of the writing was his, I heard Ankara’s voice through his hand. Within those pages were the seeds of the deviation of Dushken from Hillffolk, and the foundations of Anahar’s selective breeding. There was not enough to recreate their work, despite tantalizing clues and references to other texts. It took time, but I was able to find many of the works referenced by Terador here, in Ankara’s laboratory.”
“To what end?”
“Completing work my kinswoman abandoned,” she said, inspecting each of the vials and beakers to be certain they were empty. She gave a satisfied nod and backed away with an imperious gesture to the rishka-affected servants. “Open it.”
The servants obeyed and began the laborious task of disconnecting the spigots from the box. A foul stench struck Urzgeth as the tubes withdrew. The spiked tips glistened with a congealed substance.
“I started small, of course,” the noblewoman said. “A mouse here, a cat there. Some of my experiments had interesting results, while others ended quite poorly. In truth, I had all but given up my line of research. If Ankara possessed any useful texts, I suspected she kept them secured in her laboratory to prevent my browsing without being noticing. So you see, the boy did me more than one favor by putting an axe in my kinswoman’s chest.”
The servants worked the handles sealing the iron box. As the lid unlocked with metallic clanks that irritated his sensitive ears, the alpha narrowed his eyes. Hinges grated in protest the servants swung the iron casing open.
Foulness splashed to the floor. Black, it stank of death in the hot sun and rancid meat.
Urzgeth’s eyes widened as he covered his mouth and nose to ward off the stench. Dried blood streaked the iron lid, as though something had tried to claw its way out. He gagged and backed away from the metal case until the back of his knees struck the lip of Sathra’s chair and gave way beneath him. Instinct drove him to wedge his spine against the wood and bare his teeth in fear.
Unperturbed by the stench and the foulness beneath her slippered feet, Sathra stepped forward. A strange smile on her lips and ice blue eyes aglow, she beckoned with her left hand. “Come.”
A hand with leathery skin stretched taut over slender bones emerged from the box. The nails were missing from three desiccated fingers, and hardened bone emerged from the withered nail beds. Tendons creaked and popped as another hand gripped the sarcophagus’ edge, the joints flexing with a fluidity belied by the mummified appearance. A wasted leg extended, and a bare foot slapped the floor.
The rest of the gaunt horror emerged. Spiderwebs of corruption blossomed across pallid flesh, centered on puckered holes where spikes had been driven into the body. Matching wounds marked the thing’s thighbones between hip and knee, with another entering the lower abdomen above the shriveled manhood. More punctures covered the chest and belly, where spikes had pierced each major organ.
Sathra backed away as the corpselike thing took a single, smooth step forward. Its gaunt face was framed by hair the color of blighted straw, and yellowing teeth showed through retracted lips and gums.
“What have you done, Sathra?” he managed, his voice little more than a strangled gasp.
“Created the means to defend my throne,” she said, her voice rich in pleasure. “I must thank Seban Terador for providing me not only assistance but an ideal subject for my experiments. Wouldn’t you agree, Marcus?”
“Marcus?”
Filmy green eyes unblinking, the gaunt creature’s head turned toward Urzgeth. Something moved within the dead man’s eyes, something human – and aware.
The Dushken’s bowels turned to water as he realized the man he had known was trapped within the horror before him, a prisoner locked within his own dead flesh. Sathra’s amused cackle f
ollowed him into unconsciousness as his eyes rolled back in his head.
Acknowledgments
Writing a novel like Orphan is a complex undertaking, and it can’t be done without the support of a whole lot of people. Among the first I would like to recognize is you, the reader – without you, there is no reason for the book to exist. I hope you enjoyed reading the book as much as I did writing it. Whether you liked it or didn’t, I would appreciate you taking a few minutes to visit Goodreads, as well as the storefront where you bought the book, and leave a review. Your input will help me to continue improving the story. Also, if you want to keep up to date on new books or things I find interesting, you can follow my official Facebook page or join my newsletter (which I have not started developing quite yet).
Next on my list is, of course, my parents. Had they not encouraged my love of reading, I doubt I would have ever typed these words.
Chief among my supporters is my wife, Joy. She was there when I put the last period on the very first draft of the book and gave me substantial input that helped me reshape the story in later drafts to appeal to a broader range of readers beyond the Fantasy genre. I can’t even guess how many hours she has patiently spent listening to me talk through decisions on character concepts, dialog, plot points, and the details that would bring a fantasy setting such as this into believable existence. I also can’t tell you how many times she has read and reread drafts of this book and its sequels; what I can tell you is that there are about a dozen binders with various drafts laying around the house for this book alone.
Of course, my vision could not have come to be without my beta readers, who read various genres and helped me further decide on character and plot points. Their comments helped ensure I wasn’t addressing just a niche market while ensuring that I portrayed people as realistically as possible. So, major shout out of appreciation to James and Chelsea V., Jason O., Ashley M., Paul M., and Keri D.
