Royal Destiny
Morgan Howell
* * *
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
The Two Routes to Taiben
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
A Glossary of Orcish Terms
Also by Morgan Howell
Praise for King’s Property…
Copyright
This book is dedicated to
Jeanne d’Arc, Yanan,
and Carol Hubbell
When she gazed upon her land, it seemed that clouds moved over it. But those shadows were hordes of soldiers. Steel lightning flashed amidst their darkness as they brought death, not rain.
—From the Deetpahi of Tarma-goth
One
Othar’s sense of smell returned first. He breathed in the stench of corpses. Then sight came to his open eyes, and he saw a black, starless sky. His flesh felt on fire. With pain came awareness. With awareness came rage. She did this to me! Othar recalled her name. Dar!
When his fury hardened to stony hate, the sorcerer considered what had happened. How could a branded woman become queen of the orcs? Othar pondered that question. She had a clan tattoo. She said she’d been reborn. He was unaware such things were possible. Othar wondered what had happened to the old orc queen. He knew she had died, for Dar had used her body in a ruse to get the orcs inside the city. Did Dar kill her? He suspected not.
But I killed Dar! Othar smiled despite his pain. I stabbed her with a poisoned blade. And she… Othar recalled Dar throwing his precious, magic bones into the fire, destroying them and unleashing their power. It had burned him. Othar wished with all his being that Dar had shared his torment. Yet she had stood in the king’s spilled blood, and it had protected her. Dar had watched while Othar suffered. He recalled seeing his flesh bubble and blacken as his finger bones fell joint by joint to the floor. Her death was too easy.
With painful effort, the former royal mage raised his head. He was in a pit surrounded by the decaying bodies of paupers and criminals. The smell was nearly unbearable. Lacking hands and feet, Othar wondered how he’d ever climb out. Then he heard voices.
“They dumped a new one this evenin’.”
“And ye say guardsmen did it?”
“Aye. Could be someone wearin’ more than rags.”
Othar saw a hand extend a lantern over the pit. It illuminated the coarse faces of two men. The instant the mage glimpsed their eyes, he knew their thoughts. These weren’t expressed in words, but he understood them nevertheless. The one with the lantern will tell the other to take my clothes. Othar was amazed, for he had never possessed this power before.
The mage sensed that his pain and rage had masked another sensation. It tingled in the way he imagined a lightning bolt would after it struck. But it was more than a feeling. It seemed like another self; one that was potent, restless, and ravenous.
A ladder was lowered into the pit. “Go down and get his robe,” said the man holding the lantern. “’Tis good as new.”
His companion hesitated. “That’s Blood Crow. I won’t touch him.”
“Then my foot will touch yer arse! Climb down or fall down, take yer pick.”
“I don’t like the looks of him, Tug. He’s all burnt, ’cept those eyes! By Karm, they give me shakes!”
“He’s dead, Nuggle. Beyond harmin’ anyone. Get to it! Quick done is quick over.”
Nuggle slowly descended the ladder, and Othar sensed his reluctance as if it were his own. As he probed Nuggle’s mind, Othar realized that he could ensnare it and bend it to his needs. “Help me,” said Othar in a hoarse whisper.
Nuggle halted, and the sorcerer felt his shock and terror. Othar gazed up at Tug. “Come here.”
Tug obeyed, and Othar spoke to both men. “Take me from here.”
The men wanted to resist, and Othar sensed their fear and revulsion. These emotions were extinguished as he wrested the men’s wills, pulling both to the edge of madness. Unable to do anything but obey, they meekly lifted the mage from the damp earth, dragged him up the ladder, and laid him on the ground. Othar’s skin cracked from being handled, and his agony was excruciating. When it subsided, he spoke to Nuggle. “Steal a handcart. Bring it here.” Nuggle hurried off.
Othar turned to Tug. “When he returns, take me to your home. I’m master now.”
Tug nodded.
“Tell me news of the palace,” said Othar.
“I only know what the criers say,” replied Tug, his voice flat and lifeless. “The king’s dead. Word is ye killed him and died yerself. Queen Girta rules in her son’s name.”
“And the one called the orc queen? The girl. What of her?”
“She went home to her piss eyes. Rode off last night with a guardsman.”
“She lives?”
“Aye, that’s what the criers say.”
When Othar heard those words, his fury flared hot again and his thoughts focused on Dar’s destruction. He envisioned torments of excruciating cruelty and longed to inflict them. His universe became rage, and nothing else existed except the object of his hatred. When his passion was finally spent, Othar spied Tug sprawled on the ground. His nails and fingers were bloody. Chunks of his face and throat were strewn about. It appeared that he had acted out the mage’s fantasies by murdering himself using only his hands.
Nuggle had difficulty stealing a cart, and it was nearly morning when he returned to the pit. Othar’s grip on him was so complete that he was oblivious of Tug’s corpse. He lifted the mage into the cart, then waited for further commands. “Take me to Tug’s,” said Othar.
Nuggle headed to where Taiben’s poorest and most disreputable citizens lived, a squalid collection of makeshift buildings outside the city walls. As the cart’s wheels bumped over rutted, frozen mud, Othar reflected on his downfall. Two mornings ago, he had been the feared and respected royal mage—the real power behind the throne. Now I’m baggage in a stolen cart. Yet, despite his blasted body and ruined fortunes, Othar had gained as well as lost. By some means h
e didn’t understand, he had acquired the ability to read others’ minds and rule them. They’ll become my instruments.
Othar wondered what the full extent of his newfound powers was. Glancing about the dismal slum, he thought it the ideal place to find out. No one here will be missed. Nuggle halted the cart before a dilapidated shanty, interrupting Othar’s thoughts. “We’re here, Master.”
Before Othar could reply, a slatternly woman burst out the door. “Nuggle, ye dog’s waste, where’s Tug?” She glanced at the load in the cart. “Why ye bringin’ that shit here?” In the dim light, Othar’s scorched face blended with his black robes and the woman jumped back when she noticed his eyes staring at her. “Karm’s holy ass! What’s that?”
“Your master,” replied Othar in a low, raw voice. And with those words, it was true. “Tend me, Moli.”
The woman seemed unperturbed that the grotesque stranger knew her name. She simply helped Nuggle get the mage off the cart and into the shanty, where a meager fire produced more smoke than heat. They eased Othar onto a filthy mattress. Moli brought over a loaf of hard bread and was about to give it to him when she saw that his hands were missing. Her dull eyes showed no surprise or any other emotion. Moli merely rose and grabbed a pot of cold, thin soup. Then she broke a piece from the loaf, which she softened in the soup before pushing it into Othar’s mouth.
When Moli’s fingers touched Othar lips, a sudden craving seized him. Like his power over minds, it was new. “Cut yourself,” he whispered. “Bleed into the soup.”
Moli pulled a knife from a pocket in her ragged shift and drew it across her wrist. Othar watched hungrily as a red stream colored the soup pink. Soaked in the bloody liquid, the next bite of bread was more to his liking. He would have enjoyed watching Moli bleed to death, but he needed her. “Bind your wound,” he said, knowing that she lacked the will even to save her life.
Moli obeyed, then continued her ministrations. While she fed him, Othar leisurely probed her mind. A part was filled with terror and disgust, but that part was as helpless as someone bricked into a wall. Moli’s memories were intact, but her thoughts were reduced to those Othar had given her. He realized that Moli would serve him until her mind snapped from the strain. The mage already sensed tears in her sanity, and he was curious what would happen when it tore asunder. I’ll find out soon enough, he thought. She can’t last long.
Othar decided to have Moli lure her replacement to the shack at dawn, for he had already discovered that he required eye contact to seize a mind. The mage was still puzzling on how he acquired the power, and he speculated that it either came from the bones or the entity behind them. The latter seemed most likely. Othar had felt its presence whenever he had used the bones to foretell events. It was malicious and bloodthirsty; his ravaged body was proof of that. Then, why would it bestow this gift on me? An answer came quickly. So I can revenge myself on Dar!
Two
Dar awoke, both surprised and puzzled. “Mer lav?” I live?
A mother knelt before her. She bowed her head and replied in Orcish. “Muth la has preserved your life.”
Why? thought Dar. She had returned to pass on Fathma, the Divine Mother’s gift that bestowed sovereignty over the orcs. In her near-death state, she had been able to see it fluttering within the shell of her body, a thing of spirit like a second soul. That vision had departed. Dar could no longer see her spirit or any other’s. The world was solid again. It was also unfamiliar. “Where am I?” she asked in Orcish.
“Your hanmuthi, Muth Mauk.”
Dar realized that she was still queen. Muth Mauk—Great Mother—was not only her title; it had become her name. Dar tried to raise her head and look about, but found she couldn’t. She recalled the mother’s face, but not her name. After Dar had been reborn, every Yat clan member had formally introduced him or herself, and the parade of visitors had lasted days. “I know you,” said Dar, “but I forget your name.”
“I’m Deen-yat, clan healer.”
“I thought I was dying.”
“You were,” said the healer.
Dar thought she should be relieved and joyful. Instead, she felt daunted. I returned to pass on the crown, not rule! In her still-fragile state, that task seemed overwhelming. I don’t know what to do!
Deen-yat smelled Dar’s anxiety, but mistook its reason. “You’ll live, Muth Mauk.”
“Then I have your skill to thank.”
“Your recovery is not my deed. That herb’s magic is deadly.”
“I was only scratched by blade.”
“Such scratches have slain sons, and quickly, too. Your life is Muth la’s gift.”
Dar knew Deen-yat’s words were meant to comfort, but they didn’t. Muth la has her own purposes. While Dar thought she understood why she had become queen, she couldn’t understand why she remained so.
“How long have I been here?”
“Sun has risen thrice since your return.”
“I wish to see my muthuri and my sisters.”
“And you will when you’re better.” Deen-yat smiled. “Even queens must obey healers.”
The healer stayed by Dar’s side and tended her throughout the day. Toward evening, Dar found the strength to sit up and gaze about. She was in one of the numerous sleeping chambers of the largest hanmuthi she had ever seen. Even the sleeping chambers had adjoining rooms of their own. Many families could live here, she thought. She peered through a carved stone archway into the spacious central room. As with all hanmuthis, it was circular and featured a hearth in its center. The room was empty, as were all the other chambers.
Dar’s chamber was especially magnificent. There was a huge window glazed with panes of sand ice. The floor was a mosaic of a flowery meadow. The meadow extended to the stone walls, which were carved with a low relief that depicted a landscape. The foreground was filled with delicately rendered wildflowers. In the distance was an orcish city. “It that Tarathank?” asked Dar.
“Hai, Muth Mauk.”
“I’ve visited its ruin,” said Dar, recalling her night with Kovok-mah. Deen-yat’s expression underwent a subtle change, and Dar realized that the healer had smelled atur—the scent of love. Good manners precluded Deen-yat from mentioning it, but orcs seldom hid their feelings.
“Washavoki brought me here on horse,” said Dar, “but there was son who helped him. He gave me healing magic on way.” Dar glanced down at the star-shaped incision beneath her breast. It was surrounded by dark, discolored flesh. “Did he come here also?”
“Do you mean your muthuri’s brother’s son?”
“Hai. Kovok-mah.”
“He came here, but he has returned home.”
Dar’s heart sank. In her weakened state, she feared that she might start weeping. “I wish I could have seen him. He helped save my life.”
“His muthuri forbade him to be with you,” replied Deen-yat. “Once he learned you would live, he couldn’t linger.”
Dar’s despair deepened. So the word is out. Even Deen-yat knows. “What of washavoki who brought me?”
“It has returned to its own kind.”
So Sevren’s gone, too, thought Dar. At least I have my family. “I’d like to see my muthuri soon. And my sisters, especially Nir-yat.” Dar surveyed the empty rooms about her, already missing the lively atmosphere of Zor-yat’s hanmuthi. “It’s too quiet here.”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” said Deen-yat. She felt Dar’s brow and sniffed her wound. “Hai, you should be well enough to see them.” She gave Dar a sympathetic look. “It would do you good. It’s lonely being great mother.”
It was long after nightfall when Kovok-mah arrived at the hall where his parents lived. As he shook the snow from his cloak, his aunt greeted him. “Sister’s son! I’m surprised to see you. Kath! Your son has returned from Taiben.”
Kath-mah emerged from a sleeping chamber, still rubbing the drowsiness from her eyes. “Kovok? Why are you here? You were sent to kill for washavoki king.”
“King is dea
d, Muthuri. Another rules washavokis now.”
“Doesn’t our queen wish you to kill for it also?”
“We have new queen.”
“This is news indeed! How is that possible? Our queen lived apart.”
“She found someone to receive Fathma. Before she died, queen passed it to that mother.”
“But mothers no longer visit Taiben.”
“This one did.”
Kath-mah regarded her son irritably. “Who is she? Why don’t you tell me?”
“She was Dargu-yat. But since Fathma changes spirit, she’s Dargu-yat no more.”
Kath-mah stared at her son, momentarily dumbfounded. Then her expression hardened. “And because I forbade you to be with Dargu-yat, perhaps you think I’ll change my mind.”
Kovok-mah bowed humbly to his muthuri. “That’s my hope.”
“When Dargu was reborn, magic transformed her spirit but not her body. She was still as ugly as any washavoki. Now that she’s great mother, has that changed?”
“Thwa.”
“Then her body won’t bear me granddaughters.”
“Although I wish for daughters, I think other things are more important.”
“That’s because you’re young. Daughters give you standing. Look at my sister and me. Who greeted you to her hanmuthi?”
“But Dargu is great mother!”
“And her hanmuthi—however grand—will always lack children.”
“Then you won’t change your mind?”
“Thwa.”
“When I saw Dargu-yat in Taiben, she said you would bless us.”
“Where would she get that strange notion?”
“Perhaps from her muthuri. Didn’t you two speak together?”
“We did. And Zor-yat knew my mind in this matter. She sympathized and even warned me of Dargu-yat’s power.”
“What power?”
“Your attraction to her is unnatural. That’s magic’s doing.”
“Dargu knows no magic, though Muth la sends her visions. My feelings come from Muth la.”
“Don’t speak foolishly. Sons don’t understand such matters.”
[Queen of Orcs 03] - Royal Destiny Page 1