Heart of Black Ice (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles Book 4)

by Terry Goodkind

  The Norukai crowded closer, amused by the impending fight. As the darkness thickened, they brought lanterns to illuminate the open deck, clearing an area for combat. Grieve held his wicked war axe in his right hand.

  “All right, let’s play,” he said.

  The two faced off.

  CHAPTER 32

  Disheartened and angry after so many soldiers had died in the meadow of deadly flowers, General Utros’s army marched into the mountains. As their provisional leader, First Commander Enoch rode his warhorse, donning a crimson cape to indicate his rank. His brass helmet gleamed in the sun, but his entire body felt like iron, heavy and harder than the stone he and all the soldiers had been for centuries.

  With the general himself on his way to Orogang, Enoch needed to lead more than a hundred thousand fighters, but he had never been an inspirational commander like Utros. So many soldiers had already died since awakening from the petrification spell, and they had all lost their families many centuries ago when they had left home for the last time under the banner of General Utros.

  Utros was the one who inspired that undying loyalty, and although Enoch tried to hold the army together, he could tell that cracks were showing in their ranks. A handful of stragglers from Ildakar had picked them off, one by one, and then hundreds more died in the field of poison flowers, a trap. That had been a great blow to their confidence in him.

  Enoch had not been at the forefront that day, but riding among the ranks to encourage the marching companies. His vanguard had been so easily provoked by a few gadflies, so heinously tricked. By the time Enoch had arrived to join the charge, the broad meadow was already strewn with writhing bodies.

  Now, riding endlessly through the mountains, Enoch squeezed his fists, feeling the stretch of his leather gauntlets. He wanted to bash each one of the rebels against a rock. Even a thousand casualties had no significant effect on the gigantic force, but it was like a sword thrust through the heart of their morale.

  And he was in command.

  The soldiers were without supplies and starving, and they knew it, though kept alive thanks to the unsettling spell that altered their digestion and metabolism. Their instinct forced them to strip the greenery off trees, grasses, and bushes, like locusts. They devoured any animal they caught. Enoch had a sick suspicion that if the bodies of those fallen soldiers had not been impregnated with the deathrise poison, some of his most desperate troops might even have eaten the human flesh. But he had rushed the thundering force up to the next ridge, away from the poisonous flowers and all that tempting meat. . . .

  Enoch drove the army harder as they climbed into the more rugged mountains. He wished General Utros would come back and join them again. The army needed their general, though Enoch dreaded explaining such a failure to Utros once he returned. . . .

  The marching force stretched out for half a mile, heading into the mountains, up above the tree line and toward the highest pass ahead. Raising a gloved fist, he shouted loudly enough for the front ranks to hear his words, which would then be passed along down the line of soldiers. “Scouts have found a large mountain lake ahead! We will camp there for the night. Just another hour, and we’ll be there.”

  Finally, they reached a cliff-ringed bowl below the last line of high peaks, where a clear mountain lake welcomed them. This would be their final camp before a vigorous push up and over the pass of Kol Adair. The first ranks set up camp around the lake, finding patches of dry ground to sleep on.

  The pristine hanging valley looked peaceful and spectacular, and Enoch inhaled deeply of the crisp, cold air. Though stark and forbidding, the crags were beautiful in a wild way. Filled with snowmelt and stream runoff, the lake reflected the veils of late-afternoon clouds like a broad mirror.

  The sound of his soldiers setting up a camp, scrounging whatever scrub wood they could find for campfires, created a comforting drone. Normally he would have heard more chatter, boisterous challenges, gambling games, but the troops were sullen and exhausted.

  Enoch had devoted his life to serving in the army. He had marched proudly alongside General Utros, but he had given up hope of a normal family, of the contentment a retired veteran might expect with a small farm and an orchard outside of Orogang. The general had handed him this responsibility now, and Enoch took satisfaction from leading this great army, although he was aware that if Utros did not come back soon, some of these soldiers would desert the army and go somewhere to live out their lives however they wished.

  As endless troops continued to march into the basin, supply sergeants filled barrels of drinking water from the lake, and the cooks prepared scant meals with whatever rations they had left. The rest of the fighters stripped out of their armor and rushed to the cold water to wash themselves. They splashed their faces, rinsed dirt-encrusted hair. Though the water was frigid, some swam out to rocks protruding from the lake. At last, their tension began to ease, washed away like the dust of the long march. Some soldiers even made makeshift fishing poles from willow branches and went in search of trout.

  Suddenly an odd hush fell over the men on the shore, and Enoch felt something change in the air. A few swimmers cried out in shock, then sank beneath the surface, never to emerge. Others stood at the lake’s edge, wary, searching for an enemy.

  Far from the shore, Enoch cried, “Beware of the water!” He pushed his way through the troops, trying to get to the lake.

  The soldiers already crowding the shore peered transfixed into the deep water and gasped. Several voluntarily dove in, still wearing armor, as if tempted by an irresistible force; they swam deep and did not resurface.

  More soldiers came running. One subcommander yelled at his company, grabbed the shoulder of a struggling man, and tried to drag him away from the shore, but then he, too, stared in fascination, as if caught in a spell. He dropped to his knees and plunged into the water, still wearing full chain mail. He drowned before he got far.

  Rather than being terrified, the soldiers at the lakeshore began calling out names, full of yearning and wonder. “Alice! Alice, how are you here? I’ve missed you so—!”

  “Jane! Oh, and our dear daughters! I’ll save you. I’ll join you!”

  “Ma! I can hear you. I can see you. Ma! Wait for me.”

  As if caught in their own bubble of obsessive focus, the soldiers didn’t hear their own comrades right beside them. They could only see whatever had hold of their eyes and minds. In desperation and with no sense of self-preservation, they jumped into the water and swam away from shore. More warriors charged forward, trying to stop their fellows, but the transfixed men fought back, refusing any rescue. In moments, the would-be saviors were also captivated by some illusion and plunged to their own doom as well.

  They stretched out their arms, several of them sobbing. “I thought you were dead. How can you be here?”

  “I am coming for you.”

  Enoch had to save his men. “Retreat! Stay away from the lake.” He stormed forward, knocking soldiers aside, shoving their shoulders, pushing them to the ground. “Are you fools? The water is dangerous. Get back!”

  He bowled men over and called for more troops to rescue their comrades, to drag them away from the shore no matter what it took. “Don’t look in the water!” He kicked others, heaved them aside, forced his way to the edge. It was madness, complete madness! He could not see what was attacking his troops.

  When Enoch looked at the lake, even though it was churned by struggling bodies, he caught sight of a patch of smooth water, and just beneath the surface he saw submerged faces, heard voices that tugged at his heart. Gritting his teeth, he tried to force himself to turn away . . . but the woman’s eyes caught him like a rabbit in a snare. He recognized her face, the familiar smile with its endearing chipped front tooth, her wavy brown hair, her arched eyebrows that had drawn him in when she first smiled at him, so long ago.

  “Camille?” he whispered, and suddenly he could hear none of the commotion around him. He was interested i
n nothing else. This was not possible!

  The very mention of her name strengthened the apparition. She reached up with delicate fingers, straining toward the surface of the water from below. “Enoch, my love. I’ve waited for you, waited forever.”

  He felt as if his entire body had turned to stone all over again. “Camille?”

  “Enoch, why didn’t you join me? You left me behind. It was so long ago!”

  She was the closest thing to love he had ever allowed himself. Camille was a barmaid in a tavern in Orogang, and he saw her every time he returned to the capital city. She always had a warm bed for him, but he refused to marry her, because he was a dedicated soldier. He knew he would be gone for months or years at a time and would likely die on a distant battlefield; he was too fond of Camille to bind her like that.

  Still, she swore herself to him, said that she adored him. They had two young sons, boys that Enoch barely knew, Aaron and Alex. As soon as he thought of them, the boys appeared beside Camille under the water. They had bright eyes, freckled faces, and curved noses, features that bore a hint of his own.

  “Father, come to us,” the boys cried in unison.

  Enoch gasped. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching forward. His heart ached. “Yes, I left you so many years ago. I didn’t mean to.” Although thousands of soldiers crowded in the basin around him, he heard nothing else, saw nothing but his loved ones shimmering beneath the mountain tarn.

  “Come to us,” Camille pleaded. “The Keeper wants you. You are long overdue.”

  The grizzled face of his father appeared beside Enoch’s beloved woman and their two sons. The old man had shown him much, taught him many hard lessons in life. His father had always retained a sense of humor along with a sense of wisdom.

  Enoch’s world spun, and the deep water seemed to call to him.

  The old man said, “You belong here in the underworld. With us.”

  Remembering his duty, Enoch dredged up a firm tone of command. He tried to keep his thoughts straight. “Who are you, truly? My father and family are long dead.”

  “Yes we are, and so should you be,” young Alex said in an eerily mature voice.

  “Come to us,” Camille said again.

  “Now that you and all your soldiers awakened, the Keeper has tasted your souls. He knows what he has been missing,” Enoch’s father said. “He knows what has been stolen from him for all these years. You belong in the underworld. All of you. With us.”

  Knowing his father’s stern voice, Enoch flinched at the scolding.

  Aaron said, “You should have been here with us centuries ago. Now the Keeper wants you.”

  All of them said in unison, “He wants you all.”

  With a remarkable effort, Enoch broke his connection to them. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He forced himself to lurch away and stumble back onto the shore, where he collapsed. The clamor around him returned with a rush of uncontrolled sound. Staring up at the sky, he suddenly heard all the moans, the longing outcries from his soldiers. They were dying by the hundreds, sacrificing themselves to the lake, giving themselves to the Keeper.

  “No!” Enoch dragged himself to his feet. His army was perishing before his eyes, countless ranks rushing into the lake. This was far worse than the meadow of poison flowers.

  The rear divisions still arriving at the lake saw that something terrible was happening, but they didn’t understand. Enoch pushed into the main encampment, bellowing commands in the voice that General Utros had taught him. “Do not listen! Do not look into the water. Stay back!”

  He knew the ranks at the shore were lost, so many bodies already bobbing facedown in the water. He wept as he turned his back on the desperate pleas of his beloved family, but he refused to take the easy way out. He yelled at the nearest lieutenant. “Rescue the ones you can, but do not approach the water!”

  The frightened soldiers passed his instructions along, spreading the warning like wildfire. Enoch grappled with his own men, pulling as many as he could away from the shore. Those who came too close looked in horror at the countless floating corpses, yet they did not comprehend the danger.

  Tears poured down Enoch’s battle-scarred face as he forced his army to skirt the lake and head directly toward the mountain pass. “Abandon camp! Keep riding! We cannot stop here.”

  He mounted his horse and led them away from the trap at a full gallop. Tens of thousands of soldiers followed him in confusion and terror, pushing on into the cold mountains. Enoch felt his heart turn to stone again as he rode higher toward the pass, wondering whether his entire army was truly alive, or if all these soldiers had actually died long ago and just didn’t realize it yet.

  CHAPTER 33

  Weak from blood loss and utter exhaustion, Nicci fell into a sleep as deep as a coma. Mrra remained in the cool bedchamber, protecting her sister panther from danger. The big cat curled up beside her, and Nicci took comfort in the dense, soft fur, the powerful feline body.

  The bloodthirsty zhiss were bottled up, dwindling and starving, and the Hidden People could at last reclaim their city and emerge into the sunlight again.

  In the depths of her sleep, though, loud sounds reached her. Nicci awoke to turmoil inside the stone buildings. She sat bolt upright despite her lingering weariness. Mrra sprang to her feet and faced the splintered remnants of the door she had shredded with her claws in order to break free the night before. Nicci slid off the bed, her head throbbing with pain, her knees shaky. Thanks to hundreds of the biting zhiss, her pale skin was mottled with maroon blood blisters. She tried to shake off the fuzziness. “Come, Mrra. Let’s go see.”

  With the cat loping along beside her, Nicci ran down the torchlit corridors toward the main entrance. The Hidden People were crowded at the high doorway, staring out into the daylight as if still fearful of the sun.

  Crouching in the shadows, young Asha turned to her with an expression full of hope and desperation. “Nicci, we need your help!” When the girl clutched her arm, Nicci winced, feeling the bruises and bite wounds across her skin.

  She felt intensely weary. “I already saved you. Have the zhiss escaped?”

  A man nearby shook his head. “No, not the zhiss—an army! He’s come back!”

  She was surprised and confused by the statement. “What army?”

  “A thousand soldiers bearing the emblem of Emperor Kurgan! Cyrus said it was General Utros.” Asha hung her head. “He’s dead now.”

  That made no sense. “General Utros is far away. Why would he come here?”

  “This is his capital,” said another man, hiding in his gray robes. “He has two sorceresses with him. Cyrus and a dozen followers went out to greet him, but the sorceresses blasted them to bones and ashes.”

  At this news, Nicci felt her strength return in a surge, though her ears still rang and her head throbbed. She worked her way past the drab people and stood in the towering doorway. “Two sorceresses?”

  Out in the sunlight, she saw the glare reflected from countless shields, swords, chain mail, and armor plate. Hundreds of mounted troops filled the main plaza. Riding a black stallion, General Utros wore his distinctive horned helmet and golden mask. Beside him, dismounted, stood two bald women with designs painted on their skin.

  Without hesitating, Nicci strode out into the bright sunlight to challenge them.

  *

  The stench of roasting flesh wafted into the air. Utros held the reins as he looked down at the gray-clad bodies his sorceresses had blasted. Now he needed new captives he could interrogate.

  Ava looked downcast that she had disappointed her general. “Surely, they meant to attack.”

  Ruva said, “Look in the shadows. Many more are lurking here. They infest your city, what is left of it. We must eradicate them.”

  Fine swords were clutched in the blackened skeletal hands of the strange victims. Utros wondered if the furtive, gray-clad men were the remnants of some lost army left behind in the ruins. Wary now, he looked around at t
he great towers, the carved monoliths that depicted the exaggerated glories of Iron Fang. The city seemed more ominous now that the sorceresses had destroyed the first attackers—or were they merely emissaries? Curiosity seekers? They shouldn’t have been killed so quickly.

  He shouted out to the shadows. “I am General Utros, and I have returned to Orogang. If your emperor is not worthy, then I will be your new ruler.”

  His words were loud enough to startle pigeons from the high eaves. His soldiers flooded into the plaza, lining up their horses in ranks. He heard the jingle of tack, the rustle of leather armor, the sliding musical note of swords being drawn from scabbards as they waited in the ominous silence.

  “Show yourselves!” Ava cried. “Bow down before General Utros.”

  Ruva muttered, “Like beetles hiding inside a rotted log.” In disgust, she looked at the blackened corpses on the flagstones in front of them. “We will eradicate them all so we can take back your city.”

  Since the pale figures seemed frightened of simple daylight, Utros decided they must be mere scavengers, human leftovers who did not belong in this glorious capital. Utros turned to his troops. “Break into companies and move through the major buildings. Sweep them clean. Round up those people. We will interrogate them.”

  He faced the still-imposing palace that had been Iron Fang’s seat of power. He remembered the towers that stretched toward the heavens, the supporting buttresses, the arched windows that were now all bricked up.

  The main palace entrance was open, though, and figures huddled inside. They must have seen Ava and Ruva blast the first group of emissaries, and he planned to strike greater fear in their hearts. He would ride his black stallion through the gates and directly into the grand throne room like a conquering hero.

  Then one person strode boldly into the daylight, carrying herself with pride. Unlike the tattered gray rags that covered the others, this woman wore a black dress that clung to her shapely form. Her blond hair was raggedly cropped, and her piercing blue eyes stared at him as if his soldiers and sorceresses simply weren’t there. She had eyes for him, and him alone.