It was slow, careful work, and Dar was aware that Kol could appear any instant. If he did, she was doomed to an agonizing death. I can’t think of that. These footprints must match. Dar took the time to make sure they did. She reached the archway and made a few additional conspicuous prints. Afterward, she carefully made her way to where the wall had collapsed, stepping on the fallen stones to avoid leaving prints. Every step was agonizing, but that didn’t deter her. Dar hid in the rubble, removing her cloak to wrap around her frozen, bleeding feet. Then she waited. That was all she could do.
Kol had ceased making taunts. Instead, he tried to focus on the chase. It wasn’t easy, for rage fought with concentration. He had risen so high—almost within grasp of the crown—and Dar had dashed it from him. Kol was so infuriated that he toyed with the idea of killing her himself Forget Othar! Yet, even as Kol had that thought, he knew he couldn’t. Enemies surrounded him. Othar was a dangerous ally, but he was his only ally. Dar will be my gift to him.
Nevertheless, Kol kept envisioning using the blade on Dar’s face. Other places, too. The images were so compelling that he would lose her trail and have to backtrack. Yet pursuit became easier as time passed. Dar showed signs of wearing out. She left more prints and the prints grew bloody. Though tracks on rubble piles were hard to spot, Dar walked on them ever less frequently. Too rough on her dainty f^, thought Kol. As the prospect of her capture drew near, the chase became fun. It reminded him of the sport he had in the orc regiment where the branded women had no chance. Just like you, Dar. Just like you.
When Kol passed through an archway and spotted a line of footprints, he knew the game was over. The trail led into the dome but not out of it. He doubted the solitary building had another exit. He strode over to see. She went inside, all right. Kol stepped into the dome. A stairway descended into a single room. It was illuminated by a small hole in the center of the ceiling. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Kol looked about the room. There’s no way out. She’s still in here. Though the room lacked hiding places, it was shadowy close to the walls. Kol smiled, thinking of Dar sheltered only by darkness. Not for long. You’re mine. He descended the stairs, relishing the ominous quality of his footsteps. Then the door slammed behind him.
Dar slid the bolt on the door and began piling stones against it. The oak in the door was thicker than a hand’s length and hard as iron, but Dar wanted the reassurance of stone. She carried large blocks barefoot through snow, and it was satisfying. Only when a substantial pile pressed against the door did she climb the dome to reach the hole in its roof. The thick stones of the ancient dome had retained some of the fire’s heat. They felt soothingly warm to Dar’s aching feet.
The interior of the dome looked pitch-black. Dar couldn’t see Kol, but she could hear him. He was hacking at the door with his sword. Dar heard the blade snap, and Kol let loose a string of curses. She waited for him to quiet down. “It’s no use, General Kol,” she said, giving the rank a mocking inflection. “You’re in sacred space, where the World’s Mother is commander.”
“Tup your World’s Mother!”
“That’s not the proper attitude. This dome’s for contemplation, and you’ve much to contemplate.”
“Othar will set me free.”
“I think not. You were his tool, nothing more. He used you like you used that sword. Who saves a broken blade?”
“I’m not broken yet!”
“You’ve been broken for years.” Dar saw the stone cover for the opening and began to push it over the hole. The heavy cover was hard to move. “Think about those you wronged. Loral. Frey. Twea. All those you sent to the Dark Path.” The cover got stuck, and Dar changed position so she could tug it over the opening. She called down the partly covered hole. “Darkness will help you concentrate.”
A voice screamed from below, “Dar!”
A dagger flew past Dar’s face, nearly grazing it. She flung herself back as the blade lost its momentum and tumbled down, striking the dome and skittering to the ground below. Dar’s sudden movement loosened a block at the hole’s edge. Perhaps the fire had weakened the stone’s mortar; perhaps another force was at work. Either way, the block teetered for a moment, then crashed to the floor below. A second stone fell. Dar’s vision had shown her what would happen next. The hole enlarged as the stones encircling it tumbled down. Dar slid down the dome’s side and dashed from it before turning to see it crumble. The roar of the dome’s collapse was followed by eerie stillness.
Gorm sweated as he stirred the cauldron. Foul steam saturated his sleeves, scalding him. Despite the pain, he continued to stir, certain both his life and soul depended on it. He paused only to scoop blood from the floor with his cupped hands and dump it into the cauldron. That ingredient was new, causing Othar to ask, “What’s that for?”
“Shhh!”
“Don’t shush me! When did you start doing magic?”
“Long before your mother breeched you.” “What’s that brew for?” asked Othar.
“Assurance.”
“Against what?”
“Shut up! I need to hear.” Gorm cocked his ear, as if listening to a conversation in an adjacent room. After a spell of silence, he said, “Kol has failed.” Gorm tensed, as though expecting a sudden blow. After a long moment, he relaxed and assumed the appearance of one who has received a reprieve.
Othar stared at Gorm in puzzlement. “How do you know?”
“I was just told.”
“Now what?”
“It was all or naught. Well, it’s naught.” Gorm resumed stirring. When a loud rumble resounded through the hall, he appeared unsurprised.
“What was that?” asked Othar.
“Kol just died.”
“And Dar still lives?”
“Aye.”
“Get her! She must die, too!”
“I shall serve my master,” replied Gorm.
“Then do it! I want her.”
“You were never my master. I told you that. You were only its vessel.”
“But your master and I are inseparable.”
Gorm reached into his robe and pulled out a black sack, its fabric stitched with spells. “You’ve been deemed inadequate. My master must retrench.” Gorm strode over to the litter and lifted Othar. The mage struggled in his grasp, but feebly with leaden limbs.
“Retrench?” said the mage with rising terror. “What do you mean?”
“It must return to the bones.”
“It can’t. Dar destroyed them.”
“Aye, she did,” said Gorm. “But you possess a set.” Then he threw the mage into the cauldron.
The mage’s dying shriek echoed through the ruined hall. Though horrible, it reassured Dar. She headed for its source with no idea what she would find, but certain her peril had diminished. Nevertheless, she peered through the kitchen’s entrance cautiously. She saw that the black-robed man still stirred the cauldron. His hands were bloody. While she watched, he used the metal stirring paddle to fish something from the pot. It was Othar’s robe. Dumping the sopping garment on the floor, the man probed its steaming folds and plucked out a bone, which he quickly tossed into the cauldron before it burned his fingers.
Dar stepped into the room. Its blood-puddled floor felt unnaturally warm to her bare feet. “Who are you?” she asked, brandishing the dagger Kol had thrown at her.
The man eyed the blade nonchalantly. “A servant. My name is Gorm.”
Dar changed her grip on the dagger to the throwing position. “Othar’s servant?”
“Never his.”
“Then whose?”
“It doesn’t have a name yet. It won’t have one for ages.”
“Yet it’s unholy, I know that.”
“Unholy?” said Gorm. “I’m not so sure. Is divinity benign?” He resumed his stirring. “You’re thinking of killing me, aren’t you?” He smiled. “Can you kill what’s in this pot?”