by Megg Jensen
And she knew it would. The orc was unwilling to give up, despite the arrows sticking out of her body. Maysant had hit the orc’s heart, or damn close, and still the orc wasn’t affected. There was something in the air that day, giving the orcs a boldness she’d never witnessed in any of the infected in the encampment. These orcs were different, made more resilient somehow by evil magic.
Maysant’s heart pounded. This was it. Even on a good day, she couldn’t overpower an orc. They were naturally bigger and stronger. She was only a wisp of a thing. All she had were her arrows, which the orc could snap with its bare hands. And no one would help her. They were all too busy fighting for their own lives. Hers was no more precious than theirs. She respected that, honored it, and prepared for whatever hand fate dealt her.
She thought of all the things she’d done wrong since leaving her homeland—and tried to forgive herself. Even a mote of forgiveness would help her on the journey to a peaceful afterlife. Tears began to stream down her cheeks.
As the orc approached, Maysant could smell the stench of rot emanating from its decaying body. Bile rose in the back of her throat and threatened to spew forth. Maysant swallowed hard, forcing herself to face the orc bravely in her final moments.
The orc loomed over her, reaching out with her pocked arms, green fingers grasping. Maysant closed her eyes and held an arm over her face. She couldn’t bear it any longer. She surrendered to whatever was about to happen.
She heard the orc make a strangled noise, probably preparing to bite her, and then a thump.
Maysant peeked out from behind her arms, afraid to see its snarling teeth in her face. But instead, the orc lay on the ground, its head bashed in.
A dark, hulking shadow covered the orc’s body. Maysant followed it to its source.
Ghrol.
“Msent safe.” Ghrol looked at her, his eyes sad.
“Oh, Ghrol!” Maysant leapt to her feet and threw herself into his beefy arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for what I said to you before. I regretted it immediately, but then you were gone, and I couldn’t tell you. I’ve missed you so much! I’m so happy you’re okay!”
“Msent frnd.” Ghrol rested his chin on her head and hugged her back.
Maysant pulled out of the embrace. “Yes, we are friends, the dearest of friends. Now, tell me, do you want to fight alongside me and help the orcs?”
Ghrol’s eyes narrowed as he looked over the battle waging on the prairie. “Bad orcs. Ghrol kill.”
“That’s right, Ghrol,” Maysant said. “Just the bad ones, okay? If you aren’t sure, ask me.”
Ghrol smiled, drool forming at the corners of his lips. Then he took off into the fray, destroying infected orcs right and left with his impressively strong arms.
Maysant grabbed her bow and restrung it with extra sinew she kept in her quiver. Within moments, she was lobbing arrows at infected orcs, making Ghrol’s job easier. Hope swelled in her chest as she convinced herself she and Ghrol could single-handedly turn the tide of battle.
Chapter 56
Damor wrestled with his thoughts. Queen Ambrielle had ordered her troops and healers to march for the dock at the Orianna Sea, leaving the orcs to fight for themselves. He hadn’t predicted this move. He had assumed the elves would not only stay, but would prevail over this strange new enemy, then institute their own rule over the orcs. That would have allowed Damor to gather the power he needed to take on the humans to the south. All of his long-term plans focused on his homeland of Soleth. Even Ambrielle had promised him a role in taking over Soleth eventually.
Yet instead, the elves were tucking their tails and leaving at the first sign of trouble—and ruining Damor’s plans
“Benin?” The voice floated into his covered tent. It was one he’d come to know recently. One he almost liked hearing. It was strange, having an ally. It had been so long since he’d felt positively toward another living being.
“Come in, Ylantri.”
The flap parted, and the elf who so intrigued him entered the darkness.
“Have we failed, Damor?”
He had already revealed his real name to her; she had deserved to know something about him, after she divulged all of her secrets. Well, not all her secrets. There was something different about Ylantri, something more than what she’d already told him.
She sank onto the ground next to the pillow he lounged on and rested her hands on her knees, her eyes downcast.
“Don’t be so glum,” Damor said. “We will figure out how to achieve our goals.”
Ylantri cocked her head to the side. “I can barely see you. How can you tell I’m down?”
“It’s in your voice. It’s quite obvious.” He watched her, thrilled he could see her better than she could see him. He’d spent years practicing an emotionless visage.
“I came here to tell you I’m not going back to Gailwyn,” Ylantri said. “I thought you deserved to know. You are the closest I’ve come to making a friend in this madness.”
Damor pursed his lips. Friend. Usually, that was a word he used to manipulate others into doing his bidding. It had worked quite easily with Maysant when she’d rescued him in the forest. But with Ylantri, it felt different. Even hearing the word slip from her lips… it felt more like a promise.
“You could stay, too.” Her words were almost a whisper.
Damor felt a tug somewhere deep inside, in a place he had closed off from the world long, long ago. Still, he didn’t answer.
“Both of us have goals we must reach in Agitar. While I don’t know what yours are, I know they won’t be served in Gailwyn. You don’t know the queen as I do. Once she gets home, she will fall into complacency. Life is easy in Gailwyn. She doesn’t need war.” Ylantri reached out, her fingertips a breath away from his arm. Her hand shook a little. “Damor? I can’t read your expression in the darkness. Please, tell me what you are thinking of doing.”
Before she’d entered his tent, Damor had already leaned toward staying—though how he would accomplish such a thing, he didn’t know. He was still weak. He couldn’t travel without assistance of some kind.
As if she could read his mind, Ylantri said, “A few of my healers are staying, including two who have helped to care for you since you joined the queen’s retinue. They are willing to continue their ministrations.”
Ylantri was promising him things no one had ever freely given. Surely there was something wrong with her. Then again, he had seen into her true soul. She was broken, like him. Maybe she was the first who truly understood what he needed.
Without warning, her hand rested on his arm. Invisible flames danced over Damor’s neck and cheeks. He fought the urge to jerk away.
“You’re shivering,” she said.
“I’m fine.” Damor slowly moved his arm away from her touch, as if it were the most natural thing in the world—rather than the most painful movement he’d made since his skin had healed from the flames that had nearly killed him.
“What will you do?” Ylantri put her hand back in her lap. Exactly where it should be, away from him.
Damor knew his goals aligned with hers. They both needed to stay to accomplish them. Damor hated to leave the elf queen—without a powerful ally, how could he eventually return to the south triumphant?—but a powerful ally who insisted on remaining a continent away would do him no good. So he would stay, though he would have to make Ylantri understand it wasn’t her cajoling that had brought him around. It was logic. Not the touch of her hand, but necessity.
“I will stay,” he said, “and I will accept your offer of assistance. Going to Gailwyn with the queen would be tantamount to exile. I prefer to remain on the continent of my birth.”
“And you can achieve your goals here.” Ylantri hesitated before continuing. “What are your plans, Damor? Will you share them with me?”
Damor contemplated whether to share his ultimate goal with her. Though Ylantri understood him, he still wasn’t sure of her loyalty.
“You already
know so much about me,” Ylantri said, scooting closer. “You know what I am. Who I am. Why I am so desperate to help the orcs.”
He could smell the scent of the vanilla that flavored the paste she used to brush her gleaming teeth. He could see the dark berry color of her lips. He felt a shudder pass over him. He was feeling things he’d thought were gone ages ago.
“No,” he snapped, jerking away from her. She was too tempting, and temptation would destroy his plans. “If you want to assist me, fine, but do not question me. My motives are not for you, or anyone else, to know.”
Instead of looking disappointed, Ylantri merely nodded. “I understand. Few know mine. Only those I trust completely. I will earn your trust, Damor. You will see I can be a powerful ally, if only you will let me.” She stood. “Do you want to relay your decision to the queen yourself, or shall I do it?”
Damor had previously thought to send one of his guards to tell her; he certainly wouldn’t be doing it himself. “If you are going to her, then please tell her for me, as well.”
Ylantri bowed. “I will. And I will be back with my healers to move you to a secure location. The fighting is only growing outside our part of the encampment. Soon it will be here, and you cannot defend yourself. I will guarantee your survival.”
Before Damor could respond, she exited the tent, leaving him alone once again with his thoughts.
Too much of this was out of his control. He could befriend the greatest of leaders, but they had minds of their own. Two queens in a row had ignored his counsel, despite saying how much they needed it. Ambrielle was no better than Lissa.
He would find a way to get what he wanted eventually. He’d been at his game for nearly two centuries. He wouldn’t give up now.
Chapter 57
Nemia sat tall on her horse as Azlinar cackled with delight. He’d done it. Everything he’d promised her had materialized. One by one the infected orcs from the encampment turned to her side, aided by Azlinar’s magic. She watched with delight as the battle easily turned in her favor. Her loyal orcs hacked and slashed through any who dared oppose them, beating back the enemy. The battle was raging, and she would win.
She would be the rightful queen of Agitar.
Finally.
“My queen,” Azlinar said. “Soon you’ll be able to claim victory.”
“Yes.” Nemia squeaked it out. She could hardly believe it was coming true.
She refused to close her eyes to the carnage. These were her orcs, all of them. She would witness the deaths of the traitors who had refused to come to her side. As queen, it was her burden to carry.
Nemia had sent three loyal, uninfected orcs through the battle to find General Dalgron and bring him to her. She would have words with him. She would make him see that it was best if she ruled Agitar because only she held the cure for the infection. He’d have no choice. He would surrender. They could all move on peacefully. And then Azlinar could do the final act he’d promised her.
She looked over at the hunched old orc barely balancing on his horse. He still did not cast a shadow on the ground. Azlinar had done so much for her since she’d met him in the dark mining tunnels under Agitar. He’d been the only one to care for her after her parents rejected her. He’d whispered stories to her that had made her laugh and others that had brought on tears. He was there for her when no one else was.
Azlinar truly loved her above all others, and that was why he supported her claim to the throne. That was why he’d used his magic to secure it for her.
Her guards marched through the battle with Dalgron between them. He struggled, his biceps bulging as he fought to free himself. But her guards were stronger than the great general. They’d worked in the mines their entire lives, not living cushy lives aboveground.
Nemia had heard plenty of bragging in the throne room. She knew what the general thought of himself. And she knew better. The true work of Agitar was done underground by the orcs who were invisible to those aboveground. They kept the city running with the coal they mined. They filled the city’s coffers with the gems they carefully carved out of the walls. It was they who kept Agitar standing above all other orc cities on the great continent of Doros.
Not men like General Dalgron.
“General,” Nemia said as her guards brought him next to her horse.
He spat on the ground at her horse’s hooves.
“Bow to your queen,” Azlinar commanded.
Dalgron glared at Nemia. “My queen? I don’t know who this pretender is, but she is not my queen!”
“I am your queen,” Nemia said with a steady voice. She had known there would be those who doubted her. “My mother and father were the rulers of Agitar. My father abdicated, and then they fled the city.” Nemia paused at this small lie. It was necessary if she were to take the throne. “I am the trueborn daughter of Rafe and Agamede. They removed me from the succession due to my disfigurement.”
Nemia pushed her hood back, revealing her face.
Dalgron didn’t gasp as she had suspected he would. Instead he cocked his head to the side, studying her. Nemia shifted in her saddle, uncomfortable at his scrutiny. Few had ever looked upon her face without recoiling. Even fewer took the time to truly look at her features.
Self-conscious, Nemia raised a hand to her face, touching the cheekbones that were so like her mother’s and blinking the eyes that were as dark green as her father’s. She’d seen all this. Would Dalgron? If he believed her, then the fighting would end, and she could ascend to the throne.
Dalgron relaxed, his shoulders drooping. “I see them in you.”
He believed her! This was exactly what she had hoped for all those years. Even when she was building the army, she didn’t want to hurt anyone, not really. She only wanted someone to listen, to believe her, to accept her. Tace had almost been that person, but she’d sent Nemia away.
Now Nemia had proved she didn’t need Tace. She could fight and win battles on her own, just as the rightful queen of Agitar should.
“So you accept Queen Nemia’s claim, then?” Azlinar sneered. “Bend the knee.”
Dalgron turned his glare to Azlinar. “Why should I? Her father would never have waged war on his own orcs, particularly not when they were weak with disease. He would have asked for safe passage into the camp. He would have spoken with me without violence.” Dalgron turned back to Nemia. “You have defiled the honor of the throne of Agitar with your actions—and with his dark magic. No, I will not bend the knee. I will not accede to your demands.”
“Then you will suffer.” Azlinar raised his hands.
Before he could do anything, Nemia slapped his hands down. “Stop this. Both of you.” She looked down at Dalgron. “The orcs need a ruler. Who do you suggest fills this role? You?”
“No. I do not wish for the crown.”
Nemia believed him. His tone was frank, his words matter-of-fact. No, Dalgron did not yearn for the responsibilities she did. “Then who?”
“I don’t know. But after what you’ve done, it shouldn’t be you. We do not attack each other, forcing our will upon the masses. That is not how the orcs work, and you, of all orcs, should know this. The throne will need to pass to someone new, just as the king ordered.”
Anger boiled in Nemia. Her father had put her aside. He hadn’t cared about the good of all. If he had, he would have kept her close to him, loved her despite her disfigurement. He was a horrible orc, and he deserved to die. He also knew how much she hated that part of herself, which was why he’d taken on the bulk of the dark magic used to control their army.
Her hands shook as she gripped the reins tightly, but she couldn’t control the power coursing through her veins, whispering in her ear. She should kill Dalgron, use him as an example. The others would surely fall in line then. They would rally to her, knowing she was the true leader, not like this coward who stood in front of her, his damn shoulders thrown back as he glared defiantly.
“I will offer you only one more chance,” Nemia said, he
r voice shaking. “Bend the knee. Show fealty to your new queen.”
“Never. You’ll have to kill me. You’ll have to kill every one of the orcs fighting against your unholy army. Then what will you have?” He pointed at Azlinar. “You’ll have one loyal orc, a few others who are afraid of you, and an entire army of mostly dead orcs who would probably choose death over what you’ve forced them to do.”
Nemia shrugged. “As you wish.” She slid off her horse’s back and stalked right up to Dalgron. She tilted her head back and looked up at him, unafraid. “My father greatly valued your counsel. I had hoped for the same relationship. But if you will not kneel to me, then I must do as you wish.”
Dalgron’s stoic eyes didn’t so much as flinch. He was a brave orc. Nemia would have liked to have had him on her side, but if he would rather die, then who was she to deny his request?
She lifted a hand, crooked her fingers, and pointed her palm at his throat. He would die quickly and suffer little. It was the least she could do for the great General Dalgron.
“Wait!” someone called out.
Nemia spun around. A twisted smile appeared on her face when she saw who was interfering.
It was someone she wanted to hurt just as much as Dalgron.
Chapter 58
Alyna dismounted Syra and walked over to Dalgron. Guards surrounded her, but they didn’t touch her. She knew one wrong move would change that.
“I thought you were one of mine,” Nemia said to her.
“You were wrong,” Alyna replied. “Let him go.”
Nemia threw her head back, laughing. “You make such a grand demand, but who has the upper hand here? Who has had the upper hand all this time? Despite your little deception with Vron, I’m still winning.”
Alyna winced at the mention of Vron. The thought of him lying dead on the ground sickened her. But she had to continue to fight. It’s what he would have wanted.