by Megg Jensen
Unreal.
Nemia returned to scrubbing the floor but kept her eyes on her parents. Her father sat on his throne, back ramrod straight, his chin slightly elevated. Her mother's hand rested lightly atop his. Her other hand played with Sabniss's curly hair.
Nemia's stomach turned. The slave girl would get everything that was Nemia's birthright. The crown. A prince. Offspring who would one day rule Agitar. And Nemia would watch from the side, an invisible servant.
Her hands steeled into fists at her sides.
The door to the throne room swung open, and a page strode in, his eyes respectfully lowered as he approached the throne. "Barragorn of Rutan is here."
"Good, send him in. I've been expecting him." A slight smile played at King Rafe's lips. He was happy. It was a look Nemia knew well from her childhood. Long ago, her father would play with her, as if he genuinely loved her.
Of course, all of that had ended as the birthmark grew darker with each passing year. She repulsed him now. Hurt churned in her belly.
Barragorn entered, tall and proud, his broad shoulders pulled back so his chest seemed to lead the way. His two tusks were filed into points, and his warrior's sash was decorated with the bones of those he had slain.
He was a fine specimen of an orc. Nemia wouldn't have refused him if he'd been her intended, one more opportunity that had been taken from her.
Her body crackled with magic, despite her best efforts to ignore the power growing inside. Nemia glanced around, but no one seemed to take notice of her. They were all focused on Barragorn, whose eyes were locked solidly on Sabniss.
Her ankles were crossed modestly as her slippered feet hovered above the stone floor. Sabniss's eyelashes fluttered as she looked up at her suitor.
Nemia wanted to punch the girl. That was no way for a proud orc woman to behave. She should be strong, forcing her potential mate to see her worth. Agitar had tolerated the influence of humans for too long. Sabniss was behaving as if the male held all the power, instead of presenting herself as an equal. Barragorn looked Sabniss up and down as if she would become his property. Nemia recoiled.
"In this time of uncertainty, I would like to make an offer for your daughter." Barragorn's deep bass resonated in the hall. "For her hand, I offer you the army of Rutan and my loyalty. My orcs will fight with yours."
The king's eyes widened. "I accept your offer," the king said, without a glance at Sabniss. Though Nemia almost thought, for a moment, that he glanced at her, hiding in the corner of the throne room, pretending to clean the floor.
Nemia waited for her mother to speak up. To insist Sabniss take Barragorn's measure and deem him worthy of her acceptance or not. Instead, she remained silent. Sabniss, however, looked up at Barragorn and giggled.
Nemia threw up a little in her mouth.
Sabniss was a disgrace. If Nemia had been in her rightful place, she would have challenged Barragorn. She would have stood, circling him, and decided if he was worthy of her.
Though her father needed the military might, this wasn't how it was done. Not at all.
Nemia glared at Sabniss, who ignored her as if she were nothing other than the servant she was forced to play. Nemia's jaw locked as the magic rose inside her, unbidden. The tips of her fingers tingled as she pressed them together.
Sabniss reached for the goblet at her side, taking a long drink. She licked her lips.
Then her hands flew to her throat. She gasped for air, her body jerking as she let out a guttural wail.
Nemia continued to press her fingers together, imagining Sabniss's throat between them. The tiny bones in her throat cracking.
"She's choking!" the queen yelled. "Someone save my daughter!"
Her daughter? Nemia pressed harder, anger pushing her to end it quickly, before anyone could discover the true source of Sabniss's distress.
Sabniss folded in half, falling out of her chair to the floor.
The queen wept as she slid next to the false princess. Nemia raged at the tears spilling down her mother's face. Tears of love for a cheap imposter, tears she'd never shed for her own daughter.
Barragorn looked around awkwardly, unsure what to do. The king lifted Sabniss into his arms, tipping her head back to open her throat.
"Breathe, my daughter," he cooed to her.
He had once cooed at Nemia like that.
She pressed harder, imaging the bones in Sabniss's neck breaking.
A snap punctuated the chaos in the room. Sabniss's head dangled to the side at an unnatural angle. Her lips were slack. Her chest was still.
The king turned his back on Barragorn, forgetting the orc’s existence as he glared at Nemia. Instead of cowering as she had in the past, Nemia flung her shoulders back, standing tall. Returning her father's angry look, Nemia then glanced at her mother, who had once loved her.
No longer.
"I withdraw my offer," Barragorn said, "unless you have another daughter."
The king's eyes snapped away from Nemia, resting on Barragorn. "We have no other children. She was our only child. There will be no others. Tell the seven orc cities the throne is now empty. Whoever can conquer it all will rule Agitar. I abdicate."
The king turned on his heel, carrying Sabniss in his arms. His wife quickly followed, leaving Barragorn standing alone in the throne room with Nemia.
He turned to her, his eyes grave. "If I were you, I would flee this place, servant. Agitar will soon run with the blood of orcs fighting for the throne."
Nemia walked up to him, resting a hand on his cheek. She pricked her thumb on his pointy tusk. She pulled her hand back, sucking the blood from her thumb.
"It is you who should be afraid, Barragorn." Nemia's hands burned with magic. "A deserving orc shall take the throne, but it will not be you."
A cackle escaped her throat as Barragorn backed away from her, uncertainty in his eyes.
"Tell the other cities Agitar will fall. Whether to the South, or to another, I know not, but the end is coming for all orckind. Drothu is returning, and he will take us all with him to The Nether." Nemia gathered her cloak in her hands, fleeing the throne room and heading for the tunnels, wondering where the evil words had come from.
Chapter 9
This orc in the market would be an easy kill. It would take only a slit of the throat. No more than a few breaths and it would be over. One more step on the path to redemption. Tace would take every commission from the assassins guild until her debt to Drothu had been paid.
She'd barely slept the last few nights as the controversy over Hugh's death had grown. Everyone believed it was the work of an assassin, a great assassin if the rumors were to be believed.
Only Hordain knew it was Tace's work.
And only Tace knew the awful truth.
There were rumblings the humans of Soleth would attack in retaliation, but the orcs took the rumor in stride. The South had grumbled at them for centuries, threatening war. They hadn't ever followed through.
The orcs' religion, their culture of death, would be safe from those who sought to focus on this life alone.
"Fools," Tace said under her breath as she crept through the city. She shook her head, kicking out all thoughts of the Soleth and the priest Hugh. All that mattered was regaining Drothu's esteem after failing him so miserably.
Creeping out from the alley, Tace wandered the stalls as if she were simply browsing. Her style of dress, a velvet cape with brocade trim, told the salespeople she had money. None of them eyed her as a possible thief. Instead, they offered their wares to her, begging her to visit their stall, hoping she'd share her wealth with them.
Tace shook her head, offering a smile in return as she continued down the narrow path between the stalls. She stopped at a textiles stall, her free hand running over the damask fabric sitting on the table. She looked up, her eyes locking with the green eyes of her target.
The female orc’s face was open, trusting. Hopeful, even. Tace didn't know the woman's name, but she knew she'd fallen on hard times. Unable t
o pay her rent, she begged her landlords for leniency. They'd given it far too often. Now she had to pay the ultimate price. With her death, the landlords would receive their money in her debt settlements after her wares were liquidated. And she would go to The Nether, her soul clean as long as she died with honor and dignity.
That part was up to her, not Tace.
Once the woman felt the dagger slide across her throat, she would accept the inevitable, speeding her path to the arms of Drothu. Resisting death, turning away from it, would only damn her in the next life, just as she had been damned in this one.
"How much for this bolt?" Tace asked, the woad-dyed fabric sliding between her fingertips. Tace closed her eyes for a moment, relishing the luxurious softness. At her home, she only had rough wool blankets for the cold nights. Only the wealthy could afford such fabric. Even the cloak Tace wore today had been borrowed from the assassins guild.
"Twelve gold, milady," her target answered. Her smile held steady. Too steady. Something wasn't right.
Tace's heart pounded, telling her to run.
"I'll have to think it over. Thank you." Tace dropped the fabric, briskly making her way through the rows of stalls, her cloak flapping at her ankles.
Footsteps pounded behind her. Tace quickened her pace, turning another corner. She debated darting underneath a seller's table, but she'd be found quickly. No one in the market would care enough to lie for her if someone came looking for a woman in a brocade cape.
Shedding all caution, Tace broke into a run.
The assassins guild was very protective of its members as long as they obeyed the rules: secrecy, honesty, and honor.
Tace had broken them, but no one could have known, except Hugh’s acolyte. No orc would listen to a human.
She chanced a glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, two Agitar guards were trailing behind her, their clubs swinging from their hips and leather straps bound over their bare green chests, glimmering with the medals indicating their rank.
Muttering curses, Tace took off with a burst of speed she knew wouldn't last. They'd catch up with her eventually, particularly if some well-meaning merchant decided to help them by blocking her path.
If she could get to the maze of alleys in the buildings surrounding the market, she might have a chance. As an assassin, she knew the city far better than most. The dark corners were her hiding places. If she could find one alcove, the guards might run right past her and lose her trail completely.
Tace exited the market, gaining more confidence and another burst of speed. Rounding a corner, she spied a darkened alcove. She slipped inside, but not before an old female orc rounded the corner, her eyes on Tace's. Cowering in the shadows, Tace didn't break gaze with her, pleading in her mind for the orc to keep her presence secret.
The orc looked away, then crumpled to the ground. She rested a hand on her forehead as the guards' thumping boots came up behind her.
"Get her," the old orc croaked out. "She went that way."
Pointing with one shaky hand, the orc directed the guards in the other direction, sending them straight past the alcove where Tace hid.
The woman looked over at her and winked.
Chapter 10
A splashing sound woke Ademar. He scrambled to the other side of his apartment, finding the scrying bowl churning. Magic allowed him to speak through the bowl with the others in his order, though they were three days’ hard ride south.
The priests of Sornal had only a little magic. Most learned only the basic spells and incantations. Few learned how to wield the most powerful of magic.
Ademar knew none himself. Hugh had never taught him, and though Ademar often wondered when he would learn magic, he never asked. Perhaps he should have. Even the scrying bowl was a tool powered by magic, one Hugh had given Ademar permission to use. How it worked was still a mystery to Ademar.
"Why have you waited so long to contact us?" a gravelly voice said. A face shimmered in the water. Eldir. Ademar's least favorite priest. Of course, he had to be the one manning the scrying bowl.
"I—”
"No matter, boy. We already know about Hugh's death. Word was brought to us days ago. The whole continent knows." Eldir sighed. "Tell me how he died."
It was the question Ademar had dreaded, and the reason he'd waited so long to contact them. Hugh had killed himself. There was no mistaking what had happened. But Ademar couldn't tell the other priests the truth. Hugh was their leader, and he'd committed the ultimate blasphemy at the moment of his death. The others wouldn't understand. Ademar wasn't sure he did either. Even the orc assassin had seemed confused.
The truth would cause a rift in their order. It was better for Ademar to keep the secret. "There was an assassin—”
"I know, you simple boy. How did he die?" Eldir asked.
"Broken neck." At least that was the truth.
"Are you safe?"
"I am. For now. The orcs aren't as concerned about Hugh's death as you might think. They have their own problems to deal with." Ademar thought of the princess Sabniss, the delicate orc flower who sat next to her mother in the throne room. Ademar had seen her once when he'd attended to Hugh during a meeting with the king. "Everything changed yesterday afternoon. The princess is dead, and the king has declared the throne open to whoever can take it."
"Now this is an interesting development." Eldir stroked his gray goatee with spindly fingers. "Our armies are already preparing to invade Agitar to avenge Hugh's death."
"No," Ademar said. "You shouldn't come here. Not now. There's too much chaos. It would be dangerous. Besides, Hugh wouldn’t want you to promote violence."
"This is why you are a lowly acolyte and not a full priest." Eldir laughed, the water in the scrying bowl shaking with him. "We must avenge our leader. Agitar cannot get away with this. It is time we teach the orcs what life is really about. We will destroy their cult of death and bring them to the light."
Ademar held back an angry retort. It wouldn't do to disrespect someone who outranked him, which meant basically everyone in the Order of the Sun. But he'd been in Agitar with Hugh for a year now, and he'd learned more about the orcs in that short time than he had in all of his formal studies.
The orcs would never give up their religion, nor would they tolerate an invasion by the humans. From what Ademar could see, the orcs were far superior fighters to the humans. The present chaos wouldn't change that.
"When we send our people, we expect you to meet with them. They will need your inside information on Agitar," Eldir said. "I will contact you every morning at sunrise. I expect you to be waiting by the scrying bowl, in prayer, of course."
"Of course," Ademar said, though he and Hugh had stopped observing morning prayers long ago. Ademar had come to accept Hugh's unconventionality when it came to religion, though he'd never dreamed his mentor would stray so far as to commit suicide. It still didn't make any sense.
The water calmed again as Eldir ended their meeting. Ademar stepped away from the scrying bowl, tempted to knock it over. He couldn't, though. It would only work if the water was blessed, and Ademar didn't know how the words to bless it.
Grabbing his cloak and flinging it around his shoulders, Ademar stepped out into the cold morning, heading for the nearest inn. He wanted a warm breakfast and there was little left in the small apartment above the apothecary. Hugh had shunned more luxurious living quarters for something basic in the market district. It was where most of the orcs gathered on a daily basis, a place Hugh felt was ripe with sympathetic ears.
Ademar strode down the street, attempting to appear confident. Without Hugh at his side, he felt like an interloper. The orcs eyed him suspiciously, instead of shouting out their usual greetings. His presence was making them as nervous as it was making him. Perhaps breaking his fast at the inn was a bad idea.
Just as he was about to turn on his heel and head back to his apartment, a faint call for help caught his ear. Ademar spied a shape on the ground in a dark alley. Not one to turn
away someone in need, Ademar jogged over to the figure. He knelt, finding an old orc woman huddled under a cloak.
"Oh, thank you." She looked up at him, her eyes a clear blue, her tiny tusks broken at the sides of her mouth. “I tripped and fell. If you could help me to my home, I would be grateful. It's not far."
"Of course," Ademar said as best as he could in the orc tongue. He looped an arm around her waist, helping her to her unsteady feet. "Careful, now."
"Yes, of course." She chuckled and pointed to the right. "Inside that small alcove is the door to my home. We're so very close. I was weak and needed a bump in the right direction. It was so kind of you to stop."
Ademar let her lean on him, surprised at how small she was for an orc. Though he was tall for a human, most of the male orcs towered far over him, and many of the females were his height. But this orc's head only came to his shoulders. She was small, but her personality made up for the lack of height. As they moved slowly down the dark alley, she kept up a steady chatter about the food she would make him as thanks for helping out a weak old orc.
Ademar couldn't imagine allowing her to slave over a meal for him. His foremost concern was getting her to her home safely.
It wasn't long before they arrived at her front door. "Come in," she said, waving him ahead.
"No, I can't possibly impose on you. I think you had best relax and have someone in your family take care of you. You do have a family, right?" Ademar knew how important family was to the orcs. They often lived together in large homes, taking care of generation after generation.
"I have only one here to help me, and I have a feeling she would like you to stay, too. Come in. Please." The old lady toddled into her home, a spring in her step.
Ademar followed, curious. But when his eyes adjusted to the low light of the small apartment, he was startled to find Hugh's would-be assassin sitting at the old woman's table, drinking from a mug.
Chapter 11
The palanquin jostled over the uneven ground. Damor had long ago given up on trying to find a comfortable position. No matter what he yelled at those two stupid orcs, they continued to shake the palanquin like children with a toy rattle. He'd be lucky if he made it to Agitar alive.
