[Queen of Orcs 01] - King's Property (27 page)

Within Othar’s tent was another one made of cloth so heavy and black that no light penetrated, even at noon. At night, the darkness inside that tent was more than an absence of light—it was palpable. It dimmed flames and chilled the atmosphere. Othar sat there, illuminated by a single oil lamp that scented the air with pungent smoke.

A voice said, “I have him, sire.”

“Send him in,” said the mage.

The flap of the inner tent moved and a hand pushed a small boy into the inky space. He was dressed in the tattered clothes of a peasant. Though he was sleepy from being awakened in the middle of the night, one glimpse at the mage startled him to alertness.

Othar attempted to smile, but his face wasn’t up to the task, and his expression was more frightening than reassuring. “You’re a very lucky boy,” he said.

“Sire?” said the boy, who obviously didn’t think so.

“I have some magic just for you.”

“For me?”

“Would you like to know your future?”

“I guess so,” said the boy.

The mage produced a large iron bowl from the shadows and set it before the boy’s bare feet. “Kneel down. Gaze into the bowl and learn your fate.”

The boy reluctantly complied. “I don’t see nothing.”

Othar knelt beside him. “You’re not looking close enough.”

The boy bent down. “There’s only rust.”

Othar seized the child by the hair and pushed him down so his face touched the iron. The boy struggled until the mage drew a knife across his throat. Blood filled the bowl, steaming in the frigid dark. Othar pushed the little corpse aside and put on a circular iron pendant. Then he took out the sack that had cost the king so much gold.

Othar dipped a brush into the blood and painted a large circle on the floor. He took great care that there were no gaps in the crimson line; his withered face reminded him of the price for a mistake. Once he was satisfied, he stepped inside the circle.

The man who had sold the spell was vague about the entity it summoned. Though it had no form or voice, its presence was unmistakable. As Othar chanted words in an ancient tongue, he began to sense it. The air grew colder and the flame paler. These physical signs were accompanied by an oppressive air of malice.

Othar opened the sack and spilled its contents outside the circle. The human bones that tumbled out were yellow with age and carved with runes. The sorcerer studied the patterns they formed. The sign for “threat” immediately caught his eye. Shadows from that sign touched the bones for “king” and “mage.” Othar grew concerned.

It was nearly sunrise when the mage emerged from the black tent, his skin a deathly hue and his eyes rimmed red. The bones were subtle messengers and difficult to interpret, but they were clear about one thing—there was an enemy within the camp. Hours of study hadn’t revealed that enemy’s identity, but Othar had learned something almost as useful: If the orcs were to die, his enemy would vanish also.

Thirty-two

Dar was naked. She tumbled through darkness and fell upon the ground. As she lay there, unable to move, leaves covered her like a thin cloth. They hid her, yet she could gaze through them as if peering through a veil. Dar saw the shadowy form of the mage gazing downward. He held a dagger. Its bare blade gleamed, ready and lethal. He was seeking her.

A cold wind clawed at the leaves, threatening to tear them away and expose her. She looked about and spied the wind’s source. As first she thought it was a black cloud. Then she realized it was something else—a presence that annihilated light and warmth while radiating malice. Dar sensed it was trying to reveal her, but a huge tree restrained it.
Muth la
, thought Dar. Then she woke.

It was nearly sunrise, and Dar lay clothed on the floor of Kovok-mah’s shelter. She was shivering, and the mage haunted her thoughts. Dar wanted to dismiss her experience as a nightmare, but it felt like something else.
A vision? A warning?
Dar wasn’t sure. Yet she felt it was important to avoid the sorcerer. She didn’t understand why, but the strength of her feelings made her disinclined to doubt them. Intuition had kept her alive thus far, so she heeded it.

Sevren met Dar and Twea at the edge of the royal compound as they headed for the kitchen tent. “I’ve talked to Davot,” he said in a low voice. “You and Twea will na work in the kitchen. You’re to gather herbs. Look for them where we walked along the riverbank, and I’ll meet you there.”

Sevren strolled away as if their encounter had been by chance. Dar and Twea reported to Davot, who produced two large baskets. He reached into one and pulled out some withered herbs. Dar recognized wild thyme, marjoram, cress, and the curling scapes of garlic. There were also some leaves that were new to her. “I need ye to gather these afresh,” Davot said. “Fill the baskets…” He paused to wink. “…even if it takes ye all day.”

Soon, Dar and Twea were walking along the riverbank. When they could no longer be spied from camp, Sevren appeared and addressed Twea. “Halt! Are those the royal herbs you bear?”

“Aye,” said Twea with a grin.

“Then I must guard them,” said Sevren. “For I’m a royal guardsman.”

“And what of the bearers?” asked Dar, caught up in Sevren’s playful mood.

Sevren knelt before Twea. “Milady, I’ll defend you with my life. Your mother, also.” He looked up at Dar. “For so the orcs name you.”

“It seems you’re also a royal spy,” said Dar.

“I use only those arts that Karm gives every honest man. A pair of ears and a set of eyes.”

“And an oily tongue,” said Dar.

Sevren looked to Twea with a wounded expression. “Milady, I pray your mother is na your tutor in courtesy.”

“Oh, don’t mind her,” said Twea. “Dar doesn’t trust men.”

“Then she is wise,” said Sevren. He rose and peered into Dar’s basket. “I know little of herbs. I fear I’ll make a poor guide.”

“Then you can carry the baskets,” said Dar.

“If I did, I’d be an even poorer guard, for that would encumber my sword arm.”

Dar’s smile took on a hint of scorn. “Such a manly excuse for avoiding work.”

“Each should do what each does best.”

“So gathering herbs is women’s work?” asked Dar.

“Is it na said that mothers own the food?”

Dar looked at Sevren strangely. “Kuum da-suthat tha suth urkzimmuthi?”

“What did you just say?” asked Sevren.

“I asked how you learned orcish wisdom.”

“I’ve picked things up,” said Sevren, “but I would na call it wisdom.”

“What would you call it?” asked Dar.

“Fables.”

“Like the fable women aren’t worthless?”

“I never said they were.”

“But you believe it,” said Dar.

“Nay!” said Sevren. “That’s why I like you.”

Dar noticed that Twea was watching her intently. “Twea,” she said, “this is grown-up talk. Go ahead, but stay in sight.” After the girl reluctantly moved up the pathway, Dar turned to Sevren. “You
like
me?” she said, making it sound like an accusation.

“Aye, Karm help me. Even Twea can see it. Why can na you?”

“Your words come too easily.”

“How can I prove I’m earnest?”

“You can start by being useful.” Dar drew her dagger. “I want to learn how to use this. The last time I tried, it was taken from me.”

“You want to learn to kill?”

“No. I want to learn how to protect myself and Twea, even if that means killing.”

Sevren sighed. “I’d rather teach you a gentler skill.”

“It’s not a gentle world. This is what I need.”

“Then I’ll teach you,” said Sevren.

Dar’s instruction in the use of a blade began in the early afternoon, after the baskets were full and everyone had dined on the brown bread that Sevren had brought. First, Sevren examined Dar’s weapon. Balancing it in his hand, he declared it well made but poorly maintained. “The blade is dull and rust-pocked.” He took a stone and showed Dar how to use it to sharpen the blade. Once she restored the dagger’s edge, he proceeded within her first lesson. “You’ll na learn everything in an afternoon, or a moon’s worth of afternoons. Skill comes from confidence, and confidence comes with practice.”

“Maybe I can practice with the orcs,” said Dar.

Sevren looked dubious. “Orcs rely on strength and doggedness in a fight, na subtlety. It’s speed and cleverness you need with a dagger.”

“You mean I’ll have to practice with you?” asked Dar.

Sevren grinned. “Every spare moment.” Dar’s frown made him regret that he had looked so pleased, and he quickly turned to teaching actual moves. He commenced with defensive ones. He showed how a dagger could serve as a shield against a sword and how it could even catch a blade to disarm an opponent. Using a stick as a sword, Sevren attacked Dar so she could practice defending herself. As she improved, Sevren gradually increased the speed and ferocity of his attacks. Soon he wasn’t holding back.

The ease with which Dar mastered the moves amazed Sevren. Though she lacked his strength, she made up for it in speed and an ability to anticipate his moves. Reading an opponent was a crucial skill, and Sevren knew men who had taken days to reach the proficiency Dar had already acquired. It was she who suggested that Sevren use his sword rather than a stick. Sevren was leery. “A sword might hurt you,” he said.

“That’s its purpose,” replied Dar. “I must face the thing I fear.”

“I do na believe you fear anything,” said Sevren.

“That’s because you don’t know me.”

Dar proved as proficient against steel as she did against wood, though Sevren couldn’t bring himself to attack with full force. His arm was tired and Twea was bored when the lesson finally stopped. It was approaching dinnertime, and Dar thought it wise to head back. When they reached the spot where Sevren had met them, he bowed low to Twea. “Farewell, milady,” he said. “I must part. Tell your fierce mother I will tutor her again tomorrow.”

Twea began to giggle as she and Dar walked to the royal compound. “I told you he liked you,” she said. “He didn’t even mention the blood on your face.”

Dar grew suddenly concerned. “Is it still there?”

“Aye.”

“Good,” said Dar.

“So, do you like Sevren now?” asked Twea. “Maybe, a little?”

“Are you his spy?” asked Dar.

“At least, tell me if you cut him on purpose.”

“Of course not! That was an accident. And just a scratch, besides.”

Twea looked unconvinced. “Well, he called you fierce.”

“Dargu
nak
gaz,” said Dar in a deep, dramatic voice. “Weasel
is
fierce.”

Twea laughed.

Davot took the herbs from Twea and Dar. “Good job,” he said, “but I’ll be needin’ more tomorrow.” With that, and a wink, he sent them back to their regiment. Dar hoped they would arrive in time to serve the orcs their meal. The other women dreaded the job, and Dar was confident that no one would prevent her or Twea from performing it.

Twea was ignored when she entered the bathing tent, but Dar’s entrance was met by sudden silence and cold stares. Her absence seemed to have only increased the hostility directed toward her. As Dar scrubbed in the tense stillness, taking care to leave Zna-yat’s blood untouched, she scanned the faces about her, trying to determine who was missing. She didn’t bother to ask who Murdant Kol had flogged to death, for she knew that would be futile. Instead, she sought to discover his victim’s identity by a process of elimination. By the time she left the bathing tent, she had narrowed it down to two possibilities—Neena or Memni.

Dar went with Twea and the others to pick up the food. Taren was working at the cooking pit, and Dar managed to whisper, “Who was flogged? Neena?”

Taren gave a subtle sign that she heard Dar and then turned to speak to another woman. “I’m tired of cooking, but—oh well—we can’t all be the high murdant’s woman.”

If Neena’s Kol’s woman, then
…Dar had to know for sure. “Memni?” she whispered.

Taren’s look confirmed Dar’s fears.
Poor Memni
, Dar thought, recalling her own lashes. Dar felt grief and anger at once, but she bottled up her feelings to maintain a stoic face. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what desperation drove her friend to run away. Dar knew that she was unlikely ever to learn the story, and that heightened the sting of Memni’s death.