by Megg Jensen
“Come on, then. We need to take her to her new destination. She has a great task ahead of her.” The scratchy voice was familiar, but Alyna couldn’t place it.
Alyna slumped in their arms. It wasn’t an act; she was weak from lack of food and water. Besides, she didn’t want to waste her energy. What little she had, she needed to store for later.
The orcs took her out of the room and down the hall. A door closed behind them, and the clank of a rusted lock echoed in the low-ceilinged space. She blinked a few times, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light of the torches dotting the walls. All she could see were doors, just like the door to her cell, all of them barred and locked. Sounds came from behind them—confused grunts and occasional cries.
So—the room she was in wasn’t the only one. There were countless rooms filled with the infected. Why?
Alyna resisted the urge to lick her cracked lips. She needed water, and soon, or her organs would start shutting down. Nothing could save her when that happened. Not Hugh’s relic. Not the greatest elven healers. Not Syra or her grove. The end would come quickly, and Alyna was nearly ready to welcome it. Her insides felt like they were drying up and folding in on themselves. Her body was eating away at itself. Soon, there would be nothing left.
“She’s so heavy. I thought they could walk on their own. What’s her problem?” The orcs shifted Alyna roughly in their arms. Her skin tore from a light scratch of their nails.
The scratchy voice spoke again. The voice that was so familiar, if only Alyna could recall. “The queen has chosen you,” it said. “Do not complain, or I will be forced to tell her. You don’t want to end up like them, do you?”
“I’m not complaining,” the orc said. “Just stating a fact. It’ll be easier if I carry her in my arms.”
Alyna felt his arm slide underneath her bottom. He hefted her up, and she let her head loll to the side. She opened her eyes and looked up at him through her hair. He had only one tusk and a pierced nose. He looked straight ahead with determination, not even noticing her weak gaze. She let her eyes close again. It was too much effort to keep them open.
“Turn left at the next tunnel, then take her to the third room,” said the scratchy voice. “That’s where we’re keeping him. After you have her in there, we’ll escort him back. I think he’ll quite like his little present.” The voice laughed.
“I’ll be out momentarily,” said the orc carrying her.
So she would be sharing a room again, but it sounded like it would be with only one other. A male. Probably an orc. Alyna’s weak heart fluttered. She’d always been very good at protecting herself. But now, in this condition, she couldn’t do a thing. She’d be entirely at the mercy of whatever orc they were giving her to. She wasn’t a present for anyone.
The orc carried her through an open door. Instead of unceremoniously dumping her on the floor as she expected, he set her down very gently on a cot. It was a small kindness before whatever lay ahead. He left the room, leaving the door open behind him.
Alyna knew this would be her only chance for escape. She gathered all her strength, took the deepest breath she could… and managed only to move her pinky finger. That was it.
Her great chance for escape was gone. She was helpless. Useless. And about to be given over to an orc who would do Drothu knew what with her body.
“Get in!” someone yelled. An orc was pushed into the room with her, and the door was quickly closed, locked, and barred behind him.
The orc fell to the floor in a heap. Based on the tone of his muscles, he didn’t look weak—perhaps he had been drugged.
Alyna wanted to ask him his name. She wanted to make him see her as a being, not as a present. But she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t do anything other than pass out.
Chapter 41
Vron awoke on the floor, as he had every other time they’d drugged him and dragged him out of his cell. Where they took him and what they did, he didn’t know. Each time he was left with only cloudy snatches of memory—none of which made sense.
He groaned and rolled over on the cold floor, stretching his arms. He’d learned early on that the fastest way to recover was through movement. He closed his eyes, gave in to the stretch, allowing his arms to reach far away from his body.
His fingers brushed against something soft.
His eyes snapped open and he scrambled to his feet.
A body lay prone on the cot. He didn’t need to turn her over to see who it was. Alyna.
She appeared… dead.
Vron’s hands shook. She was the last person he would have expected to see down here. Part of him swelled in anger. What was she doing, coming after him? She should have known better. Another part of him drowned in sadness. If she was dead…
With trembling fingers, he touched her shoulder.
She was warm. Alive.
He gently squeezed her shoulder. “Alyna.”
She mumbled something unintelligible.
“You don’t have to be afraid. It’s me, Vron.” He ran his hand lightly up and down her arm. “I’m going to help you sit up, okay?”
Snaking his arm underneath her body, Vron gently pulled her up. She sat limply, her head resting against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, held her close, and rested his chin on her tangled mess of red curls.
She didn’t respond to his touch or his words. He feared she’d succumbed to the disease, that she’d turned into one of the mindless legions they kept down here in the cells next to him. Somehow he’d managed not to be exposed. Was this their plan then? To infect Alyna first, then use her to transfer the disease to him?
He gazed down at the faun. He knew her heart. He knew what she would want. It was the same release he would want. The release of death. To never give in to whatever they were plotting. He would want someone to kill him before his body gave in to the mad disease they were cultivating down here.
It was the only gift he could give her.
His eyes fell to her waist, to the rope belt that rested on her hips. They’d taken away everything he could have used to kill himself, but this they had overlooked. He unknotted the belt and drew it gently away from her. He coiled it around his hand as he lay her back down on the cot.
He brushed her hair away from her face. Her eyes remained closed, her breath barely audible through her parted, chapped lips. Even at death’s door, she was beautiful.
Vron cherished every moment she’d given him. Those memories had sustained him while a prisoner in these very mines. But now he saw a way out—for both of them. Even if it meant leaving this world.
Vron had always believed the only honorable way to die was in battle. Their religion considered suicide the coward’s way out. But he knew now that suicide could be its own victory over those who sought to control him. Battle was about winning. If he took himself out of their control, then he won.
He set to work tying a knot tight enough to hold his bulk and snap his neck quickly. He wouldn’t endure a slow death. If he was going to do it, he would do it right. When he was satisfied with his knot, he swung the rope up and over the support beam on the ceiling. He tugged, using all of his weight. It held. Everything seemed secure.
It was time.
With a heavy heart, he walked back to Alyna. She still hadn’t moved. Her eyelids were closed, her lips slack. Her arms were pale, the skin loose. She looked like one of the diseased orcs—except that they still managed to move around, as if they were looking for something they would never find. Her condition was strange. Perhaps fauns reacted differently to the disease than orcs did.
“Alyna, I’m so sorry,” Vron said, his words catching in his throat. “If you can hear me in there, know that I love you. That’s why I’m doing this. We can’t let these evil orcs use us as pawns. I don’t know their plans, but I know they aren’t honorable.”
He straddled Alyna’s body, his thighs pressing into her hips. If she jerked, he would need to hold her down. Just as with his impending suicide, the faster it happened
, the better.
Vron wrapped his hands around her neck. Tears fell as his fingers brushed over her soft skin—the same skin he’d kissed with his lips and scratched with his tusks as they made love not long ago. His thumbs came to rest at the hollow of her neck.
Her pulse throbbed weakly under his touch. She was barely alive. It wouldn’t take much.
He took a deep breath and prepared to press down.
Her eyes snapped open.
For Drothu’s sake. He couldn’t do it with her eyes open. Not with her looking at him with those green eyes.
Her lips moved as she expelled a breath of air.
It was coming. That groan he knew so well from the diseased orcs.
“Water.”
It was weak, but it was a word. A fucking word! The infected couldn’t speak—the disease took away that part of their mind, turning them into mindless husks. Which meant… she wasn’t diseased!
“Alyna!” Vron jumped off her. “You’re alive. You’re not sick.” He said it all in a whisper, not wanting anyone outside to hear.
She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. “Water.”
“Of course. Water. I have some left.” Vron took three steps to the other side of his cell and grabbed the mug they’d given him the night before. It was half full. He’d started rationing water, never knowing when a refill would come.
Holding the mug to her lips, Vron poured slowly, careful not to let too much go too fast. Alyna’s mouth puckered and her tongue darted out, lapping up the water like an animal.
“Take it easy,” Vron said with a laugh. “You’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.”
After a little more water, Alyna held up a hand, and Vron pulled the mug away.
“They think I’m infected,” she said with a scratchy voice.
“I thought so, too. I was going to…” Vron trailed off as he looked over at the makeshift noose.
Alyna rested her hand on his. “I would have done the same. No regrets.” She took in a shallow breath. “They left me to starve in a room with the infected. They assumed I would get sick.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I think it was this.” Alyna wiggled her left index finger. “It’s a relic from the body of the human priest who killed himself in Agitar.”
“The one who started the war between the humans and the orcs?” Vron asked, amazed. It was the same priest Ademar served. The same priest his sister Tace had attempted to assassinate.
Alyna nodded. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but it seems to have saved me twice. I already came down with the illness. I recovered.”
“No one here recovers. At first, all the infected died. There were piles upon piles of bodies when I first ventured into the mine. But now, they seem to just… hover between life and death.” Vron pointed to the door. “They’re outside my room. I don’t know how many, but it’s enough to worry me.”
“They’ve given you water,” Alyna said. “Do they feed you too? I haven’t eaten in… I don’t know how long.”
“Yes, I’m fed once a day. I’ll give it all to you if that will help.”
Alyna smiled. “We both need nourishment if we’re going to survive this together. Now, do me a favor. Untie that noose and give my belt back.”
Vron happily obeyed. A moment later, he was back on the bed, holding her in his arms.
“We have to make them think I’m infected,” Alyna said. “And you need to hold off on showing symptoms. If you do it too soon, they may stop feeding you.”
“Right. And in the meantime, we plot our escape?”
“We need to be prepared at any moment.” Alyna pecked him lightly on the cheek. “Together, we can do this.”
Vron held her close as they both drifted off to sleep. He didn’t care if his captors found her in his arms when they checked on him. They probably expected it. For once, he would give them what they wanted.
Chapter 42
Nemia watched her mother sleep. She truly was a beautiful orc. Her tusks were thick and came to a fine point. Her long black hair swept over her shoulder into a neat braid. Her skin bore the emerald coloring of those born into royalty, so unlike the odd, washed-out blue of Tace’s skin.
Tace.
Just thinking about her made Nemia’s blood boil. If Tace had only accepted her and not thrown her away once she was done with her, things might be different today. But all Tace did was remind Nemia how she didn’t fit in. How she would never be the true princess of Agitar. How she was a deformed, useless piece of trash.
Nemia’s heart ached. All she had ever wanted was to be loved. But her parents couldn’t bring themselves to do it, and if they couldn’t, why would anyone else?
Azlinar smiled at Nemia from across the room, his dark, gnarled teeth barely visible in the dim light. He was the only orc who had ever treated her kindly—and despite everything, he was still there with her.
“How long has it been?” she asked, impatient to move on her plan.
“Only two days,” he responded.
“How long should it take?”
“I suspect we will see a change in Vron any moment. If not, then the faun’s disease wasn’t strong enough to turn him. But based on her symptoms, I suspect it will work. You have nothing to fear, my queen.”
Nemia burned with pride every time he called her that. Though her mother was still alive, it was Nemia’s turn to rule. She would be queen. As soon as her mother declared the truth to all of Agitar—and as soon as the orcs met her army of infected—nothing could stand in her way. Particularly not when her army was led by two of their most trusted: Vron and Alyna. She would convince the orc encampment’s leader, Dalgron, that she was the rightful queen. Her mother would back up her claims. And she, Nemia, would unite all the orcs under her rule, restoring Agitar to its former glory. After all, she was the only one with the cure to the infection.
Her plan was foolproof. The disease couldn’t have emerged at a better time. She had already sent three of her newly infected orcs aboveground to infiltrate the encampment, setting her devious plan in motion. Without Azlinar’s herbs, those in the camp should already be feeling the devastating effects of the illness.
“Nemia…” Her mother’s voice was weak. “Where are we?”
Nemia went to her mother’s side. “We’re in the mines, remember? This is the place you banished me to as a small child. I’ve lived here many years.”
“Where is your father?” As if her husband was more important than her daughter. It infuriated Nemia.
“He is gone. Dead. I told you that. When are you going to remember? Now stop asking!”
Pain spread across her mother’s face.
It went this way every time. To keep Nemia’s mother compliant, Azlinar used his herbs on her. Unfortunately, it affected her memory, and every time she woke, Nemia had to go through this same difficult conversation.
“I’m sorry. Of course. I knew that.” A single tear slipped out of her mother’s eye. It was clear she still missed him, even though it was he who had convinced her to replace their deformed daughter with another orc. That was unforgivable. How could her mother have gone along with it?
“We’ll return to the surface soon,” Nemia said. “We’ll rebuild the castle, and your old chambers will be spruced up.” She didn’t have the heart to tell her mother how the xarlug had broken through the floor of her bedchamber, demolishing everything in sight.
Not that it mattered. After her mother convinced the other orcs of Nemia’s legitimacy, the former queen wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy her chambers. Nemia couldn’t have a traitor like her mother in her midst, could she? Nor could she take the risk of sending her away. What if she raised a rebellion? No. Her mother would have to die tragically from the disease.
And when Nemia took the throne, she would send someone to find the dark human mage that Azlinar had shown her after the battle with the xarlug. His powers could be of use to her, and she would have much to offer in return.
Nemia
twirled around, her cape fluttering behind her. “I’m tired of waiting. I want to see Vron for myself.”
“My queen…” Azlinar started.
“Exactly. I am your queen. You obey me. Now take me to Vron and Alyna.” Nemia stamped a boot on the floor.
Azlinar bent his head. “As you wish. I will call the bodyguards. We cannot be too careful.”
Azlinar departed, then returned with two brawny orcs, hardened from their years spent toiling in the mines. Both were deaf, and Azlinar communicated with them with hand signals.
With Azlinar and the guards behind her, Nemia swept out of the room, glad to be away from her mother. She loved her, as any child does, but she could no longer stand the woman’s presence. The herbs had made her simple and quite intolerable. She would be better off dead than alive. Nemia would be doing her a favor.
Traversing the mines was second nature to Nemia. She’d lived in them for years. Even when the tunnels were completely dark, she could make her way through them. She knew exactly where to go.
Vron’s cell was part of one of the old residences in an ancient part of the mines. They were simple apartments, not meant for permanent living—workers used to spend three nights in them before returning home to their cells closer to the surface. They were perfect for holding all of the infected orcs she was keeping alive under Azlinar’s tender care.
Azlinar could perform miracles with herbs. That was how he had kept her, and of course himself, safe from the infection. Nemia was lucky he was on her side. She would have to reward him greatly once she finally sat on the throne of Agitar.
She stopped outside of the door to Vron’s cell. One of the bodyguards opened the door, and the other entered, sheltering Nemia from a potential attack. But there was no need. Vron sat on the floor, his face to the wall. Alyna lay on the cot, her lips slack, a slight dribble of drool dripping off her cheek.
“Vron?” Nemia said in her sweetest voice.
