As the women were about to retreat into the woods, they heard a low, distant rumble. Dar glanced at the mountain ridge to the south, which was just visible above the hilltops. The setting sun illuminated a spreading dust cloud, making it glow orange. Dar grinned. “An avalanche! A big one!”
“Why are you happy?”
“Because it means the Tok clan sealed the pass. Kol can’t retreat. He doesn’t know the way.”
“Are you sure?”
“No one’s traveled the Old Road for fifty winters. The lorekeeper said so.”
The way Girta sighed, Dar assumed the queen was thinking of her son. Good! she thought. She needs
to.
The storm had spent itself, and the night was clear when Dar and Girta headed for the camp. A waxing moon lit the valley’s floor, and Dar’s impulse was to creep toward the soldiers. Knowing that would give the wrong impression, she did not. “We have to look like we belong here,” she whispered to Girta. The queen straightened.
Dar’s heart raced as they neared the camp’s perimeter, for she was aware their women’s voices would give them away if they were challenged. She and Girta had waited until long after sunset, hoping the added time would ensure the soldiers would be asleep. The camp looked still, but Dar saw some movement as they approached. She quickened her step and reached the first tents.
“Hey! Why are ye about?”
Dar saw a grizzled soldier stride toward them with the self-important air of a murdant. Girta froze, and Dar had to tug her hand to get her moving.
“Well?” said the murdant, his voice louder.
Dar made an exaggerated shrug and kept walking.
‘By Karm’s ass, ye’ll answer or be flogged!” The murdant bounded after them and grasped Girta’s shoulder. She let out a frightened yelp. “A wench?” He grabbed her helmet and tugged. When it came off, golden hair cascaded out.
“Leave her be!” said Dar.
“Karm’s milky teats! A pair o’ whores!”
Dar slapped the murdant’s hand from Girta’s shoulder. “Hands off, pig! We’re Kol’s women.” “Yer lyin’.”
“Then tup us both and find out. Just be warned, the general doesn’t like to share.”
The murdant glared at Dar, but he didn’t touch Girta again.
“Since you’ve stuck your nose in the general’s business,” said Dar, “you can escort us to his tent.”
The murdant stepped back. “Mistress, don’t be cross. I was only doin’ my duty.”
“Escort us, and we won’t say a thing,” said Dar. “Rosi, put on your helmet.”
Girta just stood there, wide-eyed. Dar struck her helmet. “The helmet, Rosi!”
Girta quickly put it on.
“Come, Murdant,” said Dar. “The general’s bed is growing cold.”
The murdant walked Girta and Dar to where the blue-and-scarlet tents stood. As Dar suspected, he was relieved when she said they could walk the last few paces alone. As the murdant hastily retreated, Dar saw that one tent bore the royal standard. They headed for it.
A small fire burned in the open area between the royal tents. The space was empty until Girta and Dar stepped into it. Then four guards emerged from the shadows. “Halt!” one shouted.
So close to her goal, Girta found her courage. She threw off her helmet. “I’m Girta, your queen. Don’t keep me from my son.”
The men stood dumbfounded as Girta strode into the king’s tent and woke him. Moments later, mother and son emerged. The boy king, wrapped in his sleeping fur, gazed at Girta in rapturous astonishment. The guards had surrounded Dar with drawn blades, and she waited for what would happen next. Girta spoke. “Lower your swords,” she commanded, and the guards did. “The king has been deceived into waging a ruinous war. General Kol is guilty of treason. Seize him!”
As Muth Mauk, Dar had come to expect obedience, and she was surprised when the guards stood their ground. The occupants of the other tents began to emerge. General Kol appeared, wearing his chain mail. “What sorcery is this?” he demanded.
“No sorcery,” replied Girta. “Justice. Guards, seize the general.”
The men looked to Kol, as if seeking his permission.
“Do it!” shouted Kregant III.
“Your Majesty,” said a high tolum who had just stepped from a tent. “We’re at war, and he’s our commander.”
Kol bowed to the boy. “That corpse looked like your mother. If you seek a deceiver, look to the orcs’ queen. This is orcish treachery, not mine.”
“Lies!” said Girta. “Your men wounded me. Dar saved my life.”
Kol regarded the other officers. “Who do you wish to lead this war? A boy and his mother or me?” “Consider how well he’s led you so far,” said Dar. “You’ve run out of rations, and there’s no plunder
to replace them. That avalanche sealed the road home. We’ll let you surrender for Queen Girta’s sake.”
“Surrender?” said Kol. “We’ll take our chances fighting.”
“Do you have six thousand in the hills?” asked Girta. “The orcs do. I’ve seen them.”
“We learned our lesson at the Vale of Pines,” said Dar. “Apparently, you didn’t. You’re camping in a valley.”
The officers glanced uneasily at the hills on either side. “The moon will be setting soon,” said one. “Orcs favor darkness for attacks.”
“I came to save my son from certain and horrible death,” said Girta. “If you won’t surrender, at least let him depart. He’ll give Kol the crown.”
Dar laughed. “A lot of good it’ll do him.”
“We have the orcs’ queen,” said Kol.
“No you don’t,” said Girta. “Dar abdicated.”
“To the orcs, I’m only an honored memory.”
“I surrender!” shouted Kregant III.
“Hear the king,” said Girta. “Obey him!”
The high tolum stepped forward. “I’ll not go against my king. General, give me your sword.”
Kol grasped his sword hilt while his eyes scanned about like those of a cornered animal. The faces of the other officers offered no hope. Several seemed already weighing their chances for promotion. Kol changed his grip to a passive one and surrendered his weapon.
“Your dagger, too.”
Kol obeyed.
“The penalty for treason is death,” said Girta. “As king, you can show no mercy.”
“Kill him,” said the boy.
A helmeted guard stepped from the shadows, sword drawn. “I’ll take him to the cesspit and return with his head, Yer Majesty.”
“Do it,” said the boy.
Kol whimpered “No! No!” but the guard seized him roughly and marched him away. Dar watched the pair go, surprised by Kol’s sudden meekness and loss of nerve.
General Kol marched submissively in the grip of the guard until they passed beyond the edge of camp. There, a shallow pit had been hacked into the frozen ground. Its odorous contents steamed slightly in the frigid air. The cesspit was an ignoble place to die and a fitting grave for a traitor. As the two men approached it, the guard glanced back toward the dark camp. “Where to, sir?”
“Othar’s litter. This isn’t over yet.”
“Take my dagger, sir,” said Wulfar. “Ye shouldn’t go unarmed.”
Othar’s encampment lay deeper in the valley, apart from the main camp. Everyone was aware of its presence, though everyone tried to ignore it. It consisted of a single, small tent and the litter. The litter’s bearers stood unsheltered beside their burden, which presently rested on the ground. The men resembled upright corpses, and seemed as oblivious of suffering. As Kol approached them, he gazed at their pale faces. Balten and Lokung stood among them. Both men’s features were constantly twitching, and their chins were coated with frozen drool. General Voltar had perished already. In his place was a strapping soldier who stared as blank-faced as the others.