Shadow of a Dark Queen
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Six elderly men came to stand next to the six youths. “These, who are their teachers, will join with me to create that which will be my daughter, and when they are done, these bodies will die. Then will the remaining spirit and knowledge enter these six young men.” To another group on the other side of the hall the dragon motioned, and another six older men came forth. “I hope more of the young who have come to us prove worthy, for those who have no successor when it comes time to die . . . their knowledge is lost forever.”
Miranda said, “Only twelve of you?”
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worthy child come to us before the birthing, he, too, can become one with us. If a girl child comes, then another daughter, to serve with the first daughter. We may yet grow in number, we of the Aal.”
Miranda hid her impatience. She had other concerns at present. “Then you birth your daughter?”
“Then my spirit joins with the spirits of my husband servants and we meld entirely, all memory and feeling, all pain and joy, to one consciousness, and that is split again, and those boys will be our sons, and my daughter shall be formed.”
“The new Oracle?”
“She shall be.”
“And what body will she inhabit? I see no young girl here.”
“This dragon’s body is magic; it is strong beyond any that the Oracle has used since our oldest memory. It shall be used again.’
“So this is why you will not be with us for twenty-five years?”
“Yes. She will be a child, even though she will have my powers eventually.”
Miranda sighed audibly. “At least she’ll be a large enough girl to give anyone pause should they break in.” For a moment she considered. “Do you know where Pug is?”
The Oracle closed her eyes and considered. “He is absent from his island. I sense him out there”—she made a vague gesture with her head—“among the worlds.”
“Damn,” Miranda swore. “I think we will need him here before your daughter is strong enough to defend this hall.” She considered something in silence a while.
“How long before you enter the final heat?”
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“We join in less than a year, Miranda. Then I shall be gone, for with the re-forming, something is always lost. This is why we, who were old when the stars were new, why we remember little of our own beginning. But in that rebirth, more strength and knowledge come, and she who follows after me shall be eventually my equal, then at last my better.”
Miranda muttered, “If we live that long.”
“Dark tides are forming. They rise against distant shores but shall reach even here, eventually.”
“I must be gone. There is little time and much to be done. I fear a great many foolish choices have already been made and that we depend too much on auguries and portents.”
“You chose a strange audience for that argument,”
answered the Oracle.
“That you’ve been useful is without question,”
said the young woman. “But fate is not immutable, I believe. I think one can seize destiny if one is but willing to make the attempt.”
“So believe those who oppose you,” said the Oracle. “This is the root of the problem.”
“Those are deluded fanatics, who live in a mad dream that has no basis in reality. They bring death and pain for no cause whatsoever.”
“True, but they share your sense of self-determi-nation.”
“On that note,” Miranda said dryly, “I bid you farewell. Are you sufficiently protected here?”
“Our arts are sufficient for all but the most powerful.”
“Then I shall be gone. Will we meet again?”
“I do not know,” said the Oracle. “Too many possible endings appear to my mind, and none clearly marked as likely.”
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“Then fare you well on your journey to immortality, and pray that we lesser beings live long enough to greet your daughter when she comes into her own.”
“You have my wishes for success,” said the dragon.
Then the young woman was gone, vanished from before their eyes with little more than a gust of wind filling the empty place where she had stood.
To the one most senior among her companions the dragon said with a chuckle, “She is much like her father, don’t you think? That touch of the cynical in her nature could be the weak spot that undoes her. I hope fate is kind to her.”
The seniormost companion said, “Very much like her father.”
Winds swept the figure atop the hill, blowing her cloak and robes in billowing wings behind her.
Smoke from distant fires stung her eyes as she beheld the carnage below. Riders were hunting down stragglers, raping and killing for sport. Using her arts, she studied in detail one scene after another.
Men made like animals in the fury of battle now visited pain and destruction on helpless men, women, and children. She balled her fists in rage, but stayed her hand. Those who commanded the riders would descend upon her in an instant if she revealed her presence magically. While fear was not her companion, prudence was, and she understood her worth lay in being able to accomplish many things between now and the time of true battle. When that issue was decided, the fate of a world and more would hang in the balance, not the lives of these pitiful wretches.
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Even at this distance, the cries of pain carried on the wind, and Miranda turned away from them as she moved down the hillside. For the time being she willed her heart to stone, for while she ached to help these few survivors, she knew that far more critical issues demanded her attention.
As she approached the scene of battle, she crouched low. Ducking behind low rocks, she waited as a company of drunken warriors wearing emerald armbands rode by, a screaming woman held across the neck of one man’s horse. Miranda felt her face flush in rage. She willed herself to calmness; losing her head now would help no one.
Skirting the action, she came to a village in ruin.
No building had been left standing—a solitary wall here, a charred doorframe there, but nothing that could be remotely called shelter. Acrid smoke stung Miranda’s eyes as she searched for any signs of life.
Seeing none, she ventured deeper into the village, seeking any information that would prove useful. In the distance, she saw movement, and ducking behind a section of wall, she waited. Another company of horsemen rode by, less vigilant than they should have been, but not the drunken roisterers she had seen earlier. These were seasoned soldiers, Miranda calculated. These men were not mere mercenaries but those posted to the central companies of the invaders’
forces. By being at this location, she now had a fair estimate of the invaders’ rate of march. Cursing quietly, for it was faster than she had suspected, she moved away from the center of the village. She could will herself away at any time, but she was tired, and the effort to cloak her presence from her enemies was taking its toll. A little undisturbed rest in a quiet 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:49 PM Page 158
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place would be needed for her to leave this area and not let her enemy know she had observed.
Miranda ducked through a burned doorframe, between two still-standing sections of wall, and even her iron-willed composure cracked at the sight that greeted her. Gasping, she had to put her hand out and grip the doorjamb, for her knees went weak as the sight of dead children greeted her. Tiny bodies charred to blackness were piled in the center of the fire-gutted building. Miranda felt a low animal
growl of pain and wrath building in her throat and bit it back as rage threatened to overwhelm her composure. She knew well that should any of the monsters who had visited this horror on the children blunder within her sight, she would destroy him without thought, without regard for the consequences to her or her mission.
Forcing herself to calm, she took two deep breaths and fought back tears of anguish. Babies with smashed heads were placed upon older children with charred arrows still protruding from them. At least, thought Miranda, the children had been killed before the building had been set alight. Bitterly she wondered if death from a blade or arrow was, in truth, kinder than dying in flames. Bidding peace to the souls of those tormented tiny bodies, she left the building.
She picked her way amid the rubble to the outskirts of the village farthest from where she had last seen the raiders. She peered around the corner of what had once been an inn and saw nothing. Dashing from the village across a rivulet running down from the hills, she made it to a copse of trees. There she almost died.
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The woman was terrified and so her knife slash went wide, but Miranda still took a cut along her left forearm. Biting back a cry of pain, Miranda reached out and gripped the woman’s wrist with her right hand. A quick twist and the woman was forced to release the blade.
Hissing in pain and anger, Miranda said softly,
“Silence, fool! I’ll not hurt you.” Then she saw the two cowering children behind the woman. “Or your babies.” Her tone softened a bit. She released the woman’s wrist and inspected damage done to her arm. Miranda saw a shallow wound, and she closed her right hand over it.
“Who are you?” said the woman.
“I am called Miranda.”
The woman’s eyes welled with tears and she said,
“They . . . they’re killing the children.”
Miranda closed her eyes a moment, then nodded.
Women the raiders could use awhile along the line of march before they finally killed them, but children would be useless. Slavers following the main army might take them, but out here at the leading edge of battle, all little ones could do was inform enemies of what they had seen.
Gasping through the tears, the woman said, “They picked up the babies and swung them by the heels—”
Miranda said, “Enough,” but her tone, while firm, was also pained. “Enough,” she repeated softly, ignoring the wetness gathering in her own eyes. She had seen the tiny crushed skulls. “I know.”
Then she took account of who stood before her. The woman’s eyes were wide with terror, but would be judged large under normal conditions. Her ears were upswept beneath blond locks and possessed no lobes.
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Miranda glanced down at the children: they were twins. Miranda’s own eyes widened in disbelief as she asked, “You are what they call ‘of the long-lived’?”
The woman nodded. “We are.”
Miranda closed her eyes and shook her head. No wonder the woman was nearly beside herself. Those beings known through most of the world of men as elves gave birth rarely, and children usually grew up to adulthood decades apart from their siblings. Some elves lived to see centuries pass, and the death of one child was more terrible than humans could imagine, but twins were almost unheard of among the eledhel, as they called themselves. For these two little boys to be lost would be a tragedy beyond human imagining for an elf.
Miranda said, “I know what’s at risk.”
“The entire village was slaughtered,” said the woman. “I took the boys into the woods to forage for food; we were to leave tonight. We were going to seek out the Jeshandi and ask for shelter there.” Miranda nodded. The Jeshandi numbered a high percentage of the long-lived among them and would likely have taken in this woman and her children. “We didn’t think the raiders would be here for another few days.” Her eyes filled again and she said, “My man . . .”
Miranda removed her hand from the cut on her arm and inspected it. The cut had ceased bleeding and now a pink scar was the only sign of damage.
She said, “If he was in the village he is dead. I’m sorry.” She knew how hollow that sounded.
Suddenly the elven woman regained her composure, and she said, “Then I must protect the children alone.”
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“Damn,” said Miranda. “If we can get clear of this murderous mob, I may be able to help.” She glanced down at the two boys and saw enormous eyes staring up at her from tiny faces. No older than four or five years of age, they would be counted children for nearly another three decades by their race, and would not be considered mature for a century.
But by either standard, human or elven, they were beautiful children. Sighing in resignation, Miranda said, “I will save your children.”
“How?”
“Come with me and be silent.”
Miranda moved away. The woman and the two boys followed, and while Miranda could have wished they had the legendary wood skills lore gave to their race—these three were villagers and were not adept at moving through the heavy undergrowth—at least these three were far quieter than a like trio of humans would have been.
Wending their way up the path from the village that they must have used to enter the forest, Miranda led the fugitives. After nearly an hour, Miranda said,
“Is there any place near here where I might rest?”
The woman said, “There is a small clearing ahead, and on the other side the entrance to a cave.”
Miranda nodded and returned her attention ahead. The raiders might be combing the area for survivors or they might be enjoying the fruits of their looting. Small villages like this yielded little by way of valuables, and if there were few women of suitable age for the men’s amusement, the captains might have sent men out on patrol simply to avoid conflicts over who could be among the first to rape the women.
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The elven woman tried to lead onward the two silent boys, and after a moment, Miranda picked up one of the two. The woman nodded and picked up the other and they carried them. Miranda knew that any child frightened enough will go silent, instead of crying, and these babies were severely frightened. Without conscious thought, she kissed the child on the temple and stroked his hair before starting to walk.
Making their way through the trees, they stopped once at the sound of distant horses and waited. When the sound receded, they continued. Reaching a heavy growth, they moved through the underbrush to a clearing, on the other side of which stood a cave.
“It’s safe here,” said the woman.
Miranda put down the child and said, “Wait.” She advanced into the darkness, using her magic arts to see in the gloom. The cave was indeed empty, and showed enough signs of human use that it was unlikely any animal would attempt to use it as a den.
She went back outside and said, “Come—”
Before she could finish, a man crashed through the brush, shouting, “I told you I saw tracks!”
Pulling a long knife from his belt, he said, “A couple of brats! But the women are young!”
Another man answered from behind, but whatever he said was lost as Miranda shouted, “Get inside!”
The woman grabbed her two children, each by one arm, and hurried inside the cave. Miranda pulled a long dagger out of her belt and waited. Another man followed the first into the clearing.
Both looked like common mercenaries. The first wore a ragged tabard over rusty ring mail, the design faded and unknown to Miranda. The second was a tall man, wearing a heavy gambeson cut off at the 52887_Shadow of a Dark.qxd 9/3/02 3:49 PM Page 163
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shoulders, for it was obviously a size too small and would have confined his ability to fight otherwise.
Miranda waited as the two advanced. “What are you going to do with that?” snarled the second man, pointing at the dagger. He glanced at his companion.
“Put that away, girl,” said the first with a nervous smile. “We’ll treat you good if you don’t cause problems. Give us trouble and we’ll make it rough for you.”
Miranda waited, and when the first man stepped close enough to attempt to reach for her, she took a quick step forward, faster than either man expected, and stuck the dagger into his throat.
She wrenched the dagger out as the second man jumped back in shock and the first died, his life gur-gling out of his gashed throat. “Hey!” cried the second man, his quick moves marking him a dangerous foe, no matter his ragged attire. His sword hissed from its scabbard and he was ready for any attack before she could close, so she moved back.
A distant clatter of hooves, and the man shouted,
“Here! Over here!”
Miranda cursed as answering calls rang through the air. While he warily observed her, she feigned an attack. His sword lashed out and he briefly exposed his arm to her. She flicked out with her blade, but it slid off the ring mail protecting his shoulder.
He laughed as he unleashed a powerful backhanded blow designed to remove her head from her shoulders, but she merely squatted. As the blade cleaved air, she thrust upward with her dagger, taking him in his unprotected groin.
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