A Legacy of Blood

by Megg Jensen

  “You will fall ill, too,” Dalgron said with a sigh. “I would be sending you to your death. If even the greatest of the elven healers succumbs, what chance do you stand against it?”

  Hilthe held up her bony wrist. A thin braid of hair was wound around her sallow, freckled skin. “Hugh will protect me.”

  Two figures burst into Dalgron’s tent unannounced. “No, he won’t.” As the flap fell closed behind them, Dalgron saw that they were the elf prince and the healer.

  “You’re better!” Dalgron said to Ylantri, surprised. He turned to Hilthe. “I thought you said she fell gravely ill.”

  “I thought so, too.” Hilthe rushed to the elf’s side. “What cured you? Was it one of Hugh’s relics?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Ylantri frowned. “Did you tell Dalgron what I told you before I passed out?”

  Hilthe grimaced. “I thought you were delusional. You didn’t mean it. Did you?”

  “What are you talking about?” Dalgron asked.

  “I told Hilthe she needed to burn Hugh’s body.” Ylantri crossed her arms over her chest. “It is imperative we get rid of it immediately. When a body begins to decay, it is susceptible to carrying disease of its own. I believe Hugh’s body will only make the conditions here worse.”

  Dalgron felt sick to his stomach. Had he really given the command to open them up to greater illness? He’d trusted Alyna and Hilthe’s assessment of Hugh’s relics. The faun wouldn’t do anything to put them in danger. Though, he supposed, she wasn’t perfect.

  “Excuse me, may I say something?”

  Dalgron tried not to roll his eyes as he turned toward the elf prince. Kazrack had already tried stealing the throne of Agitar once, using magic to lull the orcs into acquiescence. It angered Dalgron then, and it made him positively furious now. The only reason he’d even tolerated the prince’s presence was because Queen Ambrielle promised to help with the illness. Otherwise he’d happily ban Kazrack from the encampment.

  “Yes, of course. We would be delighted to hear your opinion,” Dalgron said, hoping the sarcasm wasn’t too evident.

  Kazrack straightened his tunic and squared his shoulders. “We should burn Hugh’s body. If what Ylantri says is true—and I put all of my trust in her skilled opinion—then we should dispose of it immediately.”

  “No!” Hilthe yelled, stamping her boot on the ground. “I will not allow Hugh’s body to be desecrated by fire. Humans bury the bodies of their dead—we don’t burn them to ash. It’s unheard of. If you don’t want us here, then let me take him home where he can be accorded proper funeral rights.”

  “You cannot leave,” Ylantri said. “The barrier must remain. If it comes down, we won’t be able to put it back up again. It takes too much magic, and my mages are still recovering.” She looked to Dalgron, her sparkling eyes wide. “Please, General, please heed my warnings. We cannot do this. The body must burn.”

  “You asked us to help you,” Kazrack reminded him. “So take our counsel.”

  Dalgron might have been willing to listen to the healer. She, at least, seemed to be true to her word. But every time Kazrack opened his mouth, Dalgron wanted to throttle him. He knew great leaders should do the right thing while ignoring emotions, but when it came to the elf prince… Dalgron just couldn’t resist putting up a fight. Not after what Kazrack had done to the orcs.

  “Please, if you don’t want us here, let me leave as I came,” Hilthe said again. “I’m sure you can convince your orcs to stay put until the barrier is back.”

  “I highly doubt that,” Ylantri said. She set her eyes on Dalgron. “Your orcs are growing more restless by the day. Those who are well want out. If you lift the barrier, there will be a rush to leave. Some will take the infection with them as carriers. I have seen it before. It will spread across all of the orcs of Doros. You will lose the majority of your race.”

  Dalgron felt sick. He owed the human woman nothing. And he had no particular fondness for elves, either. The only thing he cared about was the safety of the orcs. Not just his in Agitar, but the thousands spread across the northern region of their continent.

  And Ylantri was right. The orcs were restless. He’d seen it with his own eyes. The furtive glances at the barrier from those who were well. They wanted out. He wanted out, too.

  Still, if there was any chance the dead human’s body would make the infection worse, then Dalgron had to dispose of the body. That was paramount. It was the right choice.

  He cleared his throat, then looked at the three of them. “We will let Hilthe leave with the body.”

  “What?” Ylantri’s response was almost a hiss. “We must burn it.”

  “In the orc religion—”

  “This is more important than your damn religion,” Ylantri said, interrupting him. “The body must be burned. There is no other option.”

  “Allow me to finish,” Dalgron said. “In the orc religion, we bury the dead. Otherwise, how will Drothu come for our souls? If our bodies burn, the soul might also suffer damage. The humans have somewhat similar beliefs with their god. It is one of the few things we have in common, and I feel I should honor that. You will lower the barrier and then raise it as quickly as possible.”

  “It cannot be done.” Ylantri turned to Kazrack. “Please, you must do something to stop this madness. If you are truly our prince, then act like it.”

  “He’s not my prince,” Dalgron said before the foppish elf prince could utter a word. “This is my land. These are my orcs. You are here only by my invitation. This is my choice, and mine alone.”

  “Then you doom everyone to death,” Ylantri snapped. “I will take down the barrier, but don’t expect to see me tending to your sick anymore. If you don’t heed my warnings, then I see no reason to continue helping you.” She turned on her heel and exited the tent.

  Hilthe grabbed Dalgron’s arm. “Thank you. I don’t know how I can repay you.”

  “You’ll need escorts to the south. I will send two orcs to get you over the pass at the Barrier Mountains. After that, you’re on your own.”

  Hilthe bowed. “You will make a great king.”

  Kazrack made a strangled sound in his throat. “King? Dalgron? I am to be king of this land. My mother promised!”

  Dalgron turned to the elven prince. “You will never be king here, Kazrack. I will slit your throat myself first. Now, I have to make an announcement to my orcs. If you would all accompany me, I don’t want to dally any longer.”

  Dalgron strode from his tent. He could hear the human woman scrambling behind him. If the elf followed, he didn’t make a noise. Let the fool do what he would. All the elves could leave.

  He walked to the dais they’d erected in the center of camp as a sort of command center, and ascended the steps to the wooden platform. On the opposite end of the platform stood a post with a bell. He grabbed the scratchy rope in one hand and rang the bell three times. Then he waited as healthy orcs gathered around. He didn’t need all of them. Just enough to spread the word.

  “We will be removing the barrier momentarily,” he began. “I ask—no, I beg all of you to remain in the camp. Leaving will only spread the infection. If you respect your fellow orcs, do not attempt an escape. You could spread the infection wide, which would lay waste to the orcs to the west.”

  Dalgron watched the orcs’ expressions carefully. Though his address had been short, he knew he’d made the best argument he could. It was now up to them to choose their path. Any orc who believed in Drothu would side with him. Death by disease was dishonorable. And enabling a disease to spread would bring even more dishonor to the orc who recklessly carried it to others.

  A cracking noise punctuated the silence. Dalgron looked up. The shimmering, golden barrier had begun to break apart. Concern rippled through the assembled orcs. Even Dalgron thought for a moment that shards of broken glass might rain down upon them. Instead, the colors crackled and snapped, then simply dissipated into the air, as if they’d never been there in the first plac
e.

  With a great sigh of relief, Dalgron asked for two brave orcs to escort Hilthe over the pass in the mountains to the south. Two orcs stepped forward, offering their services. They sped off with Hilthe to retrieve Hugh’s body. Moments later, they were walking out of the encampment without so much as a glance back.

  Dalgron felt bad. He had wanted Hugh’s body to be a miracle cure—but sadly, he knew such a thing didn’t exist. Miracles were only for their god to perform, not mere mortals.

  As he surveyed the encampment, he spotted a strange cloud of dust in the distance. It was to the north, east of the ruins of Agitar, swirling in the midday sun. He squinted, watching it, trying to identify what was causing it. It grew larger with each passing moment, as did his trepidation. Whatever it was, it was coming closer.

  Soon all eyes had turned to watch the advancing cloud. And then, beneath it, he saw its source. Orcs, coming toward them at a fast clip.

  “Reinstate the barrier!” he shouted. “Now!”

  “Ylantri told you they can’t do it again so soon,” Kazrack muttered next to him.

  Dalgron started. He hadn’t even realized the elf had advanced to the platform, too. “They must. They have to try!”

  “That’s not how magic works. They don’t have the strength right now.” Kazrack peered into the distance. “Who do you suppose that is?”

  “I don’t know,” Dalgron said. “It appears to be an army, but it’s coming from the wrong direction. Almost as if it’s coming from Agitar itself, which is only filled with the dead. Someone find Nishta. I want her to investigate this.”

  Dread filled him. He regretted not listening to the elves when they told him to keep the barrier up. He had thought he was saving his orcs. Now it appeared his decision might have cost them all their lives.

  Chapter 50

  Nemia thanked Drothu and the fortune he bestowed upon her this day.

  After deciding her army was ready to march, she had sent scouts to see what state the orc encampment was in. She had barely believed them when they returned and said the orcs had erected a barrier that not only kept her out, but kept them safely in.

  She had to hand it to Dalgron. The infection must have hit the camp, causing great devastation, as she had hoped. He would have done the only thing he could to protect the orcs of Doros, utilizing magic unfamiliar to her. She wondered if it had anything to do with the human mage whose eyes haunted her visions. She had trouble believing the general of the orc armies would employ a human, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Her father had often spoken of Dalgron in complimentary ways. Nemia had watched the general report to her father while she was forced to skulk in dark corners, pretending to be a servant while a fake princess sat on the throne.

  Thinking of Sabniss only angered Nemia more, reminding her why she was intent on conquering her own orcs. She’d been stripped of her rightful place on the throne. It was time she took it back.

  And now, Dalgron had given her the opportunity to do just that. Her fortunes had changed.

  “Azlinar, come to my side,” she ordered.

  The old orc sat upon horseback, lashed in with leather straps. He pulled on the reins, and his horse advanced slowly toward Nemia’s. She waited patiently, knowing it was the only way he could accompany her toward the encampment. Cocking her head to the side, Nemia tried to locate Azlinar’s shadow. She could clearly see his horse’s outline on the ground, but it lacked Azlinar’s outline atop it. The sun was playing strange tricks this day.

  “My queen,” he said, bowing his head.

  “Do you see what has happened?” Nemia pointed toward the encampment.

  “The barrier has come down.” He smiled, his blackened teeth barely visible inside his dark hood. Decades of life in the mines had made him sensitive to the light. He could only emerge from the underground covered.

  “We can introduce our army to theirs.” Nemia clapped her hands, too delighted to hold back. Finally, she would show everyone the power she wielded. She would no longer hide in the shadows, an outcast. They would see the true princess of Agitar. No, the queen of Agitar.

  She turned her horse toward her horde and waved to her general, indicating she was ready to move.

  Vron stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, his lips slack. Though he’d succumbed to the infection, he could still obey her every order. Azlinar had made sure of that with his special concoction of herbs. Her sick orcs ingested it daily, keeping them from death and under her control.

  “Vron,” Nemia called out. “We move to the camp. Bring your horde with you.”

  The sick orc nodded. In a show of complete loyalty, he bent a knee to her.

  Nemia couldn’t help but smile. Finally, someone understood the only thing she’d ever wanted: to be revered. It wasn’t much to ask. It was her birthright, after all.

  Vron raised a fist in the air, urging on the orcs behind him. They obeyed, just as Azlinar had promised they would. His magic always did just as he said it would. She was lucky to count him among the few friends she’d made who had stuck around. Unlike Tace and Ademar, who had discarded her the moment they had gotten what they needed from her.

  A fire burned in Nemia’s stomach. She hoped Tace would be in the encampment, too. She would like to show her former friend how far she’d come on her own. It would be even better when Tace bent her knee to Nemia as the true queen of Agitar.

  A thrum vibrated under her horse as the infected orc army began their trek toward the encampment. Nemia rode in front, with Azlinar on one side and an orc carrying the banner of Agitar on the other. Pride swelled in Nemia’s chest at the sight of the white flag with the hammer and ax crossed. This was what she was born to do. Lead. Command. Be loved. Dalgron would see it.

  They would all see it.

  As they advanced on the encampment, Nemia knew nothing could go wrong. Her army had one order: destroy any orc who challenged them. And few would. Her plan was foolproof. With Azlinar and his concoctions at her side, she couldn’t lose.

  A horse rode out to them, an armor-clad orc on its back. Nemia squinted, trying to figure out who it was. Surely Dalgron himself would come to her. Why send an emissary when it was clear her army was ready to attack?

  The horse reared in front of her, then fell to its hooves. “Who are you?” the orc demanded with no regard for the banner Nemia’s orc carried.

  “Where is Dalgron? I wish to speak with him,” Nemia said, refusing to give identifying information to this underling.

  “Dalgron is busy attending to his sick orcs,” the orc said. She looked over Nemia. “I suggest you turn back.”

  “Give me your name,” Nemia demanded.

  “I am Nishta. Who are you?”

  Nemia squared her shoulders. “I am Nemia, queen of Agitar.”

  The orc tilted her head to the side. “I think not. I met the princess once. Show me your face.”

  Nemia clutched the hood at her neck. If she dropped it, this impudent orc would see her disfigurement. Her hands trembled. She wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

  “The king and queen have perished in the battle with the xarlug,” Azlinar said. “This is the princess. I am her right hand. We demand to speak with General Dalgron.”

  Nishta’s eyes swept the infected army behind Nemia. “What are your intentions here?”

  “I want to speak with the general,” Nemia said between gritted teeth. This orc was trying her patience. She would see Dalgron. “I am the princess. I command it.”

  “I am under orders to turn you away. Nothing else. So, go. We will speak with you after we have cured the infected orcs.” Nishta turned her horse.

  Azlinar began to chortle, his laughter filling the still air. “Your orcs will join our army. We will take over your pathetic little encampment before you can blink.”

  Nishta slowly turned her horse back to them. “Is that a challenge?”

  “It’s a promise,” Nemia said with confidence. “Vron! Strike!”
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br />   Nishta craned her head. “Vron? He’s here?”

  “He’s my soldier now.” Nemia pointed to Vron, who ran toward Nishta, cudgel in his hand.

  Nemia waited for the bloodshed, unsure how she’d feel when it happened. She wanted everyone to love her, to fear her.

  But before Vron could reach Nishta, the orc spurred her horse and galloped away, back toward the encampment.

  “Follow!” Nemia commanded.

  Her orc army began to jog behind her, their footsteps thundering over the prairie. Dalgron would know soon enough who they were and why they were coming. She only wished she could be there to see the expression on his face when he realized who was coming for him.

  Chapter 51

  Vron ran after Nishta, but not as fast as he could have. He didn’t dare look behind him at the horde at his back, their faint snuffling sending chills down his spine. Alyna was at his side, keeping pace with him, pretending, just as he was, that she, too, had succumbed to whatever foul magic Nemia and her minion Azlinar had cast.

  The last thing he wanted to do was hurt another orc, and when he saw it was Nishta he’d been ordered to attack, he had almost hesitated. She had been special to him many years ago, before the humans took her. He’d thought her dead, and was overjoyed to see that he was wrong. Even though he was involved with Alyna, he still cared for Nishta. He couldn’t lay a finger on her, not even to keep up this ruse. So he was relieved when she fled.

  Vron chanced a glance at Alyna. Sweat glistened upon her breast, and her clothes were in tatters like his. He wasn’t sure if Nemia had discovered Alyna’s secret. The two of them stayed in front of the army on the way to the orc encampment. He knew there would be bloodshed, so he had to find Dalgron as soon as possible. He would beg the orc to do as he said before too many lives were lost.

  Scanning the encampment, Vron looked for the white flag with a warrior’s helmet that would fly over Dalgron’s tent. “There it is. To the east,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth to Alyna.