[Queen of Orcs 01] - King's Property (29 page)

“I’m going to check the sentries,” said Kol. “Don’t take too long.”

Teeg grinned and disappeared into the tent.

Kol began his rounds. They eventually took him to the outer edge of the orcs’ encampment. The neat arrangement of their shelters contrasted with the muddled sprawl of its human counterpart. The orc sentries moved smartly within the confines of the upright branches. They watched Kol as he approached, their eyes glowing gold in the day’s last light. Kol had served alongside orcs for years, but their gaze still gave him shivers. They didn’t fear him, and that made him uneasy.

Dar’s somewhere in there
, thought Kol,
safe with her piss eye
. The idea provoked him. He clenched his fist and thought of whips.

The road was nearly dry the next day, and walking was easier. Everything else was harder. Rations were cut again, and hunger made everyone irritable. Two women from other regiments were flogged. Dar never found out why. Life was reduced to taking the next step and staying out of trouble. Dar marched when she was told, rested when she was allowed, and obeyed every order. She made sure that Twea did the same. In the harshness of the march, life at base camp seemed like a pleasant dream.

Dar endured the second day of marching, and then endured the third. It ended differently from the first two. The march stopped early in the afternoon, and the orcs didn’t set up an encampment. They merely piled up their bundled shelters and regrouped to form a broad, deep mass of shieldrons. Human officers rode among them, shouting orders in broken Orcish. The orcs began to move slowly, while the baggage train stayed put.

Aware that something was happening, Dar became alert. She gazed about and saw the countryside was unspoiled. There were apple trees flanking the near side of the road, their fruit still green and tiny. The lanes between the trees had been newly scythed. The tool that had done it lay dropped at the edge of high grass. There was general confusion within the halted baggage train, and Dar decided to climb a tree to view what was taking place. She found an apple tree with a tall, stout trunk and climbed it easily.

The first thing Dar saw was a town of whitewashed stone buildings surrounded by a low wall. Work seemed underway to make the wall higher, but only a small stretch had been completed. The townsfolk’s preparation for an attack had started too late. From her perch in the tree, Dar could hear bells ringing the alarm.

The town lay within a broad valley, close enough for Dar to see its panicked residents scurrying about. Lush fields surrounded it. A small river wrapped around part of its walls, but in the wrong place to be an obstacle to the orcs. From Dar’s viewpoint, the king’s forces appeared arranged like tokens in an old highland game called stone’s battle. Orcs and men took the place of different-colored pebbles; yet Dar perceived the strategy of the forthcoming attack by their positions. The orcs stood massed on the high slope of the valley’s side, preparing to advance when darkness gave their night-keen eyes the advantage. The king’s cavalry occupied positions on the far side of the valley to cut off any escape. Foot soldiers were beginning to march around the orcs, to reinforce the horsemen and to loot the town after it was taken.

“Hey, bitch!” shouted a murdant. “Get down from there!”

Dar climbed down. The murdant struck her for shirking and ordered her to report to her unit. Dar wandered about the milling soldiers and women until she found Neffa. “Go to Teeg’s wagon,” said Neffa, “get those black seeds, and give them to the piss eyes.”

Dar went to the wagon and filled a small sack with washuthahi seeds. Then she headed for the orc formation. The orc shieldrons didn’t carry banners or other identifying devices, and their utilitarian armor varied little between individuals. Thus, Dar had difficulty finding the shieldrons from her regiment. Women from other regiments simply handed out seeds randomly, but Dar wouldn’t do that. She searched until she found the orcs she knew. When she did, she said not only the serving phrase, but also added “Fasat Muth la luthat tha.”
May Muth la protect you
.

When she spoke to Kovok-mah, he looked so sad that she impulsively stroked his cheek. Then she turned away quickly, so he wouldn’t see her tears.

Thirty-four

There was no place for Twea or Dar to sleep. The orcs had left no encampment and the women wouldn’t have them. Dar and Twea wandered about camp, dodging sentries until it was dusk. Then Dar returned to the apple tree she had climbed earlier. One of its branches was nearly horizontal and thick enough for Twea to lie upon. When no one was looking, they climbed into the tree, hoping its leaves and the growing darkness would hide them.

Twea fell asleep, but Dar could find no comfortable perch, and the looming attack weighed heavily on her mind. When it grew dark, she climbed until she could view the town. The waning crescent moon wouldn’t rise until early morning, so it would be a dark night. As the last light faded, watch fires were lit along the town’s walls. The orange flames reflected off the whitewashed buildings, making the town shimmer like a bright mirage in the night. Dar heard the soft sound of tramping feet. She could barely see the mass of orcs as they marched into the valley. In the darkness, they seemed like a shadow passing over the fields.

When the shadow reached the light from the watch fires, it resolved into an army. The orcs attacked where the wall was lowest and carried ladders to surmount it. They pressed against the meager fortifications, and from Dar’s perch their movements resembled a wave striking an obstacle that could resist it only briefly before being overflowed. The fires went out where the orcs poured over the wall. The urkzimmuthi fought silently. All the sounds were human—only shouts at first, then cries more distressing to hear. Even at a distance, Dar was horrified as her imagination gave substance to what she could barely see. Still, she couldn’t take her eyes away. The town grew slowly dark as its fires were extinguished until it was only a vague, gray shape in the black valley. Dar climbed downward, wedged her body between the tree’s trunk and a limb, and tried to rest.

Sometime in the night, Dar sensed that the tree had changed. She opened her eyes and saw that it was leafless. Its branches held her high above a different valley, which was dark and filled with mist. Dar could see the lay of the land but little more, except for one thing: The valley seemed filled with stars. On second look, Dar realized that the “stars” were something else. They were gold, not white, and the mist couldn’t obscure them. They gleamed undimmed, and Dar loved them.

The lights commenced to move through the valley. When they reached the midpoint, Dar saw an ominous darkness. Like two separate waves, it crashed against the lights from either side. When it touched them, they winked out. Each time a light disappeared, Dar felt a stab of sorrow. As more lights vanished, her grief grew until it became unbearable. “Why?” she cried out. “Why do you show me this?”

The tree became the old apple tree within the orchard, leafy with the growth of spring. Twea was calling in a frightened voice, “Dar, are you all right? Why are you crying?”

With difficulty, Dar suppressed her sobs but not the grief that caused them. “I just had a bad dream,” she said. “Go back to sleep.”

Twea said nothing more, and after a while Dar assumed she was asleep. Dar couldn’t even shut her eyes. She waited for dawn to come, fearfully pondering what she had seen.

Kregant II also waited for dawn. He had spent the night in the company of his mage, drinking and pacing about his tent. Guardsmen reported frequently with news of the battle’s progress. Their accounts were optimistic, but sketchy, for none of the king’s human troops had entered the town. They wouldn’t advance until sunrise. Thus, despite the encouraging reports, the king remained nervous.

“Othar,” said the king. “The bones did say that we will win?”

“Yes, sire,” replied the mage. Though he had lost count of how many times he had answered the same question, his voice didn’t betray his weariness of it.

“And they say the town’s a rich prize?”

“I saw gold, sire. The bones didn’t say how much.”

“By Karm’s teeth, then what’s their use?”

“They will repay their price,” said the sorcerer. “Many times over.”

“They’d better,” said the king.

“Are you unhappy with my counsel?” asked Othar in a low, even voice.

“No,” said Kregant quickly, his face growing pale. “I…I only meant the treasury is bare. I need victories.”

Othar’s withered lips formed what passed for a smile. “Wisdom is never cheap. You should be glad it only cost you gold.”

“Maybe you should consult the bones again,” said the king. “I wish to know more about the great battle they foretell.”

“I’ll need another child for that,” said the mage. “Perhaps, after the town is taken…”

“There’s a branded girl in camp. I’ll have her fetched.”

“Lads are best,” said the mage, wishing to postpone another session in the black tent. “Besides, the bones have already revealed much.”

“So about the battle, the great one, I mean. Are you certain of its outcome?”

Othar chose his words with care. “The bones say our ends will be achieved.” He was thankful when the king was appeased by that answer and resumed drinking. The mage found Kregant’s demand for certainty annoying. Necromancy was a subtle business, and the guidance it provided was seldom unambiguous. The entity behind the bones didn’t reveal everything. Moreover, Othar was aware that it had a bias toward bloodshed. The bones’ counsels often seemed excessive, but that never prevented him from promoting them.

The sorcerer was more disturbed by something that had occurred recently. He had become conscious that a second entity struggled with the first. This struggle was apparent in the omens he received when he cast the bones. Something was muddling them, rendering their predictions more vague than usual and their guidance harder to interpret. Yet Othar remained convinced that his auguries were sound. If the details were unclear, the broad outlines were not. There would be a great battle. Thousands would be slaughtered. The bones said he would benefit, and that was sufficient for him.

Kovok-mah was glad when the sun rose, for it meant the washavoki soldiers would arrive soon. Then he could leave and cleanse himself of the night’s deadly employment. It hadn’t been difficult work; the frightened washavokis upon the wall had been easy to kill and there were no orders to slay woe mans or small washavokis if they didn’t carry arms. Kovok-mah didn’t even kill the hairy-faced washavokis unless they tried to kill him. Others were less restrained—the fringe on Garga-tok’s cape would have many new ears—but for his part, Kovok-mah was tired of death.

The soldiers’ entrance into the town was noisy. There were shouting and women’s screams accompanied by the crash and smash of looting. Kovok-mah was familiar with all those noises. Once the washavokis drank burning water, they would grow louder. Kovok-mah heard hoofbeats. A washavoki tolum rode down the cobbled street. He swayed slightly in the saddle, already betraying the effects of drink. The tolum stopped when he saw Kovok-mah, showed his dog’s teeth, and addressed him in broken Orcish. “Queen’s Man say ‘good, good.’ Sons keep promise. Happy queen. You go now.”