XX. The Horned King

Holland took a deep breath of the earthy, moist air. It had been more than a month since they left the mountains and the world they had entered was a primordial one, filled with black forests and endless marshland. The road was as wild as it could get and still constitute a road, tangled briars and trees often crowding so close to the trail that they could barely see five feet off it in either direction. The ground was frequently soft and muddy, sometimes deep enough that Holland worried for the horses. Bugs were a constant problem, particularly little biting gnats. Khagra, fortunately, had some kind of lotion that kept them away. There was not a sign of civilization for countless miles in every direction. No wonder the Năluci had sought refuge in the wetlands: even for the Imperium, marching an army through the area would be impossible. A heron called off to their left, stalking majestically through the water. They had not seen other people for weeks, not since they left the Long Walk for this road at Khagra's advising. As miserable as camping in the damp was, however, Holland doubted they would have to worry about pursuit.

They had made camp on the driest scrap of ground they had been able to find, beneath trees shrouded in long, dangling moss. Ardashir was cursing to himself as he tried to find anything dry enough to light. They were out of oil to pour on the wood to coax a flame.

"We can eat it cold," Vladan said. "I don't know why you're so adamant on fire."

"It keeps the animals away," Khagra said with a shrug. "And, though you may not feel it with your beast-blood, the chill sets in once the sun goes down."

After a few more minutes of struggling with the flint and steel, Ardashir sighed and leaned back on his heels. "I can't get it," he said, defeated. "Even the kindling is too wet. It's going to be a miserable night."

"We'll survive," Holland said as she checked Maël's hooves. She had to scrape the caked mud away to get a good look. It was probably for the best that she hadn't burdened him with barding when they left Tamaris—the poor horse would have been miserable. Fortunately, he and Ardashir's horse were now well accustomed to Zajar as a friendly creature, so they didn't have to worry about bolting when the drake crashed down through the overgrowth to greet them.

"Pity dragons don't breathe fire," Vladan said as the drake curled up on the road at the edge of camp, his head resting under his leathery wing. "You lot can sleep with him, though. Ought to keep you warm."

"Better him than you," Khagra said, though she kept her tone light. All of them were a little bit frayed at the moment, but she knew better than to snap. It was just exhaustion. Trudging through the mud wore on all of them.

Ardashir pulled out their rations, which were almost nonexistent. They were foraging as they went, operating off Khagra's knowledge and Ardashir's skill as a hunter, but it meant more often than not they went to bed with stomachs that were not quite full. None of them complained, particularly since they weren't expending vast amounts of energy in combat, but that didn't change the fact that it was unpleasant. "It's strange that we still haven't encountered any Năluci," he said. It usually fell to Ardashir and Vladan to make conversation, as Khagra was content with the silence after long periods of time on her own and Holland's hazel eyes were focused on the distance more often than them as she listened to a voice no one else could hear.

Holland knew they were all worried about her. The Calling was intensifying. Deus's voice was almost a constant now. He did not restrict Himself to the times where she was sleeping any longer. It exhausted her more than the road did, in all honesty. So far, the black shard hadn't been able to disturb her comrades, at least to the best of her knowledge, which was a small blessing. If anyone was going to be corrupted and destroyed by it, she preferred that it be her. "They must know we're here," the penitent said, rubbing at her eyes. She felt like she had been worn too thin, but she kept moving anyway, even if it was almost mechanical at this point.

"There is only one road through the Mere," Khagra said with a nod, sitting down on a log. The whole place smelled of decaying plant matter, but the nose was good about shutting itself off after a while. As the sun set, strange lights began to flare to life in the wetlands. At first, Holland had thought them campfires, but Khagra had quickly corrected her. They were ghash shatraug, hag's fire. The orc's main advice had been to never try and reach it. Hags, she explained, used it to lure travelers to their death out in the swamps.

Holland didn't know what a hag looked like, but she was fairly certain that she didn't want to find out. "Is there a way we could contact them?"

Khagra shook her head. "They will come when they come."

Ardashir suddenly stilled. "Holland, which way is the wind blowing?" he asked even though he knew the answer.

The penitent frowned, focusing on the faint breeze for a moment. "East to west."

"The brush there is moving the wrong way," he said in a low voice, dipping his head ever so slightly to the right. His hand was straying towards his mace.

"Show yourselves!" Vladan barked, unslinging his great-maul.

"Subtle as a brick to the face, that one," Khagra muttered, grinning a little bit despite herself. She wasn't certain if there would ever come a day when she didn't find the anthroparion's straightforward nature to be humorous.

Holland was more exasperated than amused as she drew her own sword. The game was up now. She felt her body tensing with expectation as figures emerged from the swamp around them. They did not look human, at least not until she looked more closely. All of them were smeared with mud and clay, draped in moss and plants so thoroughly that they looked like spirits of the Mere. It was a clever tactic. They had not even alerted Zajar's sensitive nose, so perfectly blended with their surroundings.

"You are trespassers," one of them said in a soft, tenor voice. He was wielding a black-bladed glaive, carefully darkened so it would reveal no gleam. The others were carrying large, cleaver-like falchions that were sturdy enough to take off a limb. "You are not welcome in this place."

"We are just passing through," Khagra said calmly, holding up her hands.

Holland gripped her sword a little more tightly, settling into a relaxed guard and waiting for them to make a wrong move. She was more than happy to let Khagra handle diplomacy for the moment, as the orc knew these lands far better than she did.

"You are trespassers," he said again.

Holland heard the hiss, but she moved just a little bit too slowly and she was not wearing her armor at the moment. There was a dull thump as the arrow hit her in the abdomen. It was not a small arrow, either. The shaft was almost as thick as a man's thumb and nearly a yard long. She wasn't certain if it had passed completely through her or not. What she did know was that she was now very, very angry.

"Holland!" Vladan bellowed, enraged. He lunged forward, his hammer making a wicked arc that scattered the group. Arrows hissed out of the woods, clipping the anthroparion but not striking him solidly enough to stop him.

Holland was faster than even him, hurling herself at the man who had been speaking with a leap worthy of a panther. Clearly he had expected her to fall, because his eyes were wide and white. Then her blade connected. She didn't waste her time with a slash—it was a thrust, right to his face. The tip of the sword hit him just beneath his nose and plunged through his head, killing him in one easy movement. It only took her a glance to realize that there were too many here for them to take. If they didn't retreat, they would die. Another arrow hit her in the stomach, just below her diaphragm.

"Vladan, back!" she barked, extinguishing another with a wicked cut that sliced across his throat.

The anthroparion sent one of the camouflaged men flying with a blow of his hammer, caving in a ribcage. The next arrow struck Holland in the shoulder with enough force to knock her a step back. A fourth caught her in the thigh. Then Vladan whirled around, sweeping his friend off her feet and up into her saddle. Holland laid as flat on her horse as she could with arrows sticking out of her body to avoid being struck in the back. Maël needed no encouragement to bolt. She heard a flurry of leathery wings and knew Zajar had taken off as well, no doubt with Khagra on his back. Ardashir quickly passed her, his lance in hand.

The anthroparion had was running behind them, maul forgotten as he broke into his strange, loping stride that could cover so much distance so quickly. He couldn't keep up with a horse in full gallop, but he could certainly outpace the men chasing them. "I will find you!" he bellowed before abruptly parting from the road and diving into the waters of the swamp.

Every gallop of her horse sent that strange flood of pleasure mingled with pain through Holland's body. She took stock of her injuries as she rode. She could feel things bleeding inside and there was an unpleasant smell—never a good sign. More than that, there was a creeping faintness that threatened to tip her out of the saddle. Her armor was gone. Seva, I am so sorry. Her instincts were screaming at her to turn around and seek combat. To die in rout would not be a good death. She tugged on the reins, urging Maël to slow as the world started to blur. She reached for her sword, only to find her scabbard empty. Her old battle-blade was lost just like her armor. Fortunately, the mastercraft was still lashed to her saddle. She had dulled its shine with smoke and oil, disguising its nature.

She turned her head at a sound in the swamp. Death had to be closing in quickly. How else could she explain the figure that she saw emerging from the swamp? It was larger than Vladan by at least a good three feet and moved like a beast, hunched forward. She was not certain if it was hair or moss that hung from its limbs in shaggy clumps, but it had the great antlers of a stag sprouting from its brow. Was this a hag? Then, she caught a familiar gleam of metal from the rags that shrouded its face.

Demon, she thought hazily as it reached out to her, clawed hands dragging her gingerly out of the saddle. She struggled as fiercely as she could, but her fists battering at its muddy hide might as well have been made of water. It smelled like decaying flesh and rotted wood.

She heard her companions approaching as it waded out of the swamp and onto the road, holding her against its chest like she was its child.

Everything went dark.

...bright blue eyes looked down into her hazel ones as the world came into focus again. "There thou art," Seva said with a smile, brushing her hair back out of her face. "I thought thy sleep would be unending."

Her whole body ached and burned as if with a fever, but she had never felt calmer or safer as those soft fingers traced the lines of her face. Reluctantly, she turned her head towards the sunlight. She could see a familiar view out her window: Tamaris. The summer breeze was a warm one that gusted gently across the sheets that were tangled around her body. "What...?" she asked quietly.

"Thou art a dear fool," Seva said softly, still smiling. Suddenly, her voice changed when she spoke again. It sounded lower and rougher. "This will hurt you, Holland."

"Why do you sound like Kh—"

Holland woke up with a yelp as the arrow was yanked free of her leg. "I was hoping you would sleep through this part," Khagra said wryly, setting the shaft aside. "Good thing you weren't with us for the nasty ones. How do you feel?"

Her whole body was shivering like she had a fever and ached fiercely, but she was very much alive. She was laying half naked on a pile of what she hoped to the gods was moss, covered in blood. There were bandages around her midsection that itched and ached. She recognized that feeling: sorcery at work. When she looked down at one arm, she saw the prick mark of a needle surrounded by a small bruise.

"WELCOME BACK TO THE WORLD OF THE LIVING," a deep, resonant voice rasped. It sounded almost human.

She turned her head to see the hulking figure from the swamp crouched beside her, shrouded in rags and hanging lichens. The smell of the swamp concealed the chemical reek of a demon's blood. His face was a blank, featureless mask, barely visible amongst the rotting cloth and shadows. She could, however, see obsidian eyes studying her. He did not breathe or move like a living creature. He was too fluid, too perfect in his motions. She tried to sit up, but then a powerful clawed hand gripped her shoulder with painful, almost crushing tightness, pushing her back down.

"KHAGRA OF THE WING WAS CORRECT. YOU ARE A DIFFICULT PATIENT."

"I don't know what you did, demon, but it worked," Khagra said as she bandaged up Holland's leg. "Those were mortal wounds."

"I MERELY REFRESHED THE BOONS LEFT BY HER PRINCE," the demon said, lowering his antlered head to examine Holland more closely. "HAD SHE NOT BEEN AN IMMORTAL, SHE WOULD HAVE DIED."

"Who are you?" Holland asked the demon.

"I AM OROBAS, THE ARCHITECT," the hulking figure said, tone impossible to read. His voice sounded perpetually contemplative. "WE HAVE MUCH IN COMMON."

"Oh?" Holland said.

The demon rose, his antlers almost scraping the ceiling of this part of the cave. His legs were slender and bent like a stag's, but he walked with perfect balance as he paced over to a bench and began putting away vials and jars. "WE BOTH SERVED THE PRINCES OF IRON. WE BOTH SERVE NO LONGER."

The penitent would have been tense, but her muscles were too tired to respond to her anxiety. Khagra didn't seem particularly relaxed, but she wasn't reaching for a weapon either. "It wanted to help you," the orc said. "You were dying."

"Thank you," Holland said carefully, both to Khagra and the demon. "Why were you so eager to help, Orobas?"

"BECAUSE I KNEW YOU," the demon said. "THOUGH YOU WERE...SMALLER THEN." He cocked his head to the side.

"Smaller?" the penitent said in confusion. She didn't remember a demon like this.

"YOU DO NOT RECALL, AS SARAQAEL INTENDED," Orobas said calmly. "I AM THE ONE WHO DESIGNED YOU. I SHAPED YOU BEFORE YOUR VERY BIRTH. YOU WERE BOUND TO SARAQAEL'S WILL, BUT HE WAS NOT YOUR ARCHITECT. I CRAFTED YOUR HANDS FOR WAR AND GAVE YOU YOUR MOTHER'S EYES."

"You are her magus?" a familiar voice said cheerfully.

Holland looked over to see Vladan approaching. He looked like some kind of half-drowned swamp rat, but he was alive and well with Ardashir on his heels. Orobas was silent for a moment, contemplating the question. "NO," the demon said finally. "SHE IS NOT SOME USURPATION OF THE NATURAL ORDER DRIVEN BY HUMAN NEED TO CREATE. SHE WAS NOT IMBUED WITH UNNATURAL LIFE. IT WAS WITHIN HER ALREADY. I MERELY DETERMINED ITS EXPRESSION AND AUGMENTED IT."

"If that is true," Holland said. "Why are you not in Arcem Tenebris?"

"BECAUSE I AM IMPERFECT," Orobas said, easing his bulk down again next to her. "THE ONE WHO WROTE ME LEFT A FLAW IN THE SCRIPT. AN...IRREGULARITY. IT WAS A GRADUAL THING, SOMETHING THAT ESCAPED EVEN SARAQAEL'S NOTICE FOR CENTURIES."

"What was that?" Ardashir asked.

"DOUBT." Orobas reached out to her, resting the point of a steely claw at the center of Holland's forehead. "YOU HAVE IT TOO. ONE FAULT BREEDS ANOTHER. A CASCADE FAILURE. IF SARAQAEL POSSESSED THE CAPACITY TO UNDERSTAND, HE MIGHT HAVE FORESEEN THE DIFFICULTIES IN YOUR FUTURE AND CORRECTED THE MISTAKE. BUT IT WAS ALLOWED TO FLOURISH, AS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN."

"You...are pleased?" Holland said. She wasn't certain what to feel right now as she looked at the creature. "You wanted me to be flawed?"

Orobas studied her in silence for another long moment. "THAT WAS NOT MY WISH," he said finally. "IN MY DOUBT, I WISHED YOU TO BE MORE THAN SARAQAEL INTENDED. BUT AUTONOMY REQUIRES...PLASTICITY."

"Why me?" Holland asked quietly, struggling to process this. Had this demon known what would happen to her? Why had it made her to be discontented? What dark purpose had motivated him to set her apart? She could feel anger boiling under the surface, but it was tempered by a quiet thought. Without doubt, would she be able to love Seva? Would she have ever left the west? Could she have even made an effort to atone for the evil she'd done?

"NOT ALL QUESTIONS ARE TO BE ANSWERED IN WORDS," Orobas said, rising to his feet again. "PERHAPS IN THE FULLNESS OF TIME, IT WILL BECOME APPARENT. YOU MUST REST. YOU ARE STILL FRAGILE. I WILL ASCERTAIN IF THE NĂLUCI APPROACH. THERE IS A DISTURBANCE AT THE PERIPHERIES." Without waiting for a response, the demon departed, leaving the four friends together in the cave.

"Holland, are you alright?" Ardashir asked.

"Not even a little," the penitent said, closing her eyes.

"So that is what a sorcerer looks like," Vladan said thoughtfully. He crouched down next to Holland. "Your magus is bigger than mine."

Khagra swatted at the anthroparion. "The last thing Holland needs right now is your yammering," the orc said.

Holland sat up despite the pain, feeling around for her shirt. She didn't know if she believed the demon or not, but what she did know was that he might have answers for her to questions she hadn't realized she had, even if he wasn't willing to give them. If the Năluci killed him, she would never know anything for certain. "Where's my armor?" she asked.

"I retrieved it from the camp," Khagra said. "But that doesn't mean you get to wear it and go charging off into the swamp. As much as I hate to say it, the demon is right: you aren't recovered."

"I've had worse," Holland said as she found the dark cloth. It was ripped where the arrows had passed through, but she was able to pull it on over her head despite the bindings around her shoulder.

Ardashir frowned at her. "For Her Majesty's sake, don't," the hooded knight said firmly. "She almost lost her protector on the road. That's enough for one day."

There was a thunderclap in the not-so-distant distance and Holland glared at them. "Now can I?" she demanded.

The orc sighed. "We all go."

It took a few minutes for all of them to be battle-ready, but once they were, they moved out through the winding cave and into the swamp. Holland could smell ozone everywhere and noted scorch marks on some of the trees. This was a powerful demon, clearly a master of sorcery, and his wrath had been felt.

What they walked into, however, was no battle. It was very much a conversation. The Năluci were trembling and quaking as they faced the powerful demon. None of them looked injured, but they were certainly frightened. "We did not know she was of the Horned King!" one of them blurted out, eyes going even wider when they saw Holland emerge from the swamp alive and arrow-less. "It will never happen again!"

"THIS IS DESIRABLE," Orobas said. He turned his head to look at Holland and her companions, studying them for a moment, before gesturing to them. "I HAVE BROUGHT THESE PEOPLE TO YOU BECAUSE THEY ARE THE GREAT ENEMIES OF THE PRINCES OF IRON. THEY WILL HELP YOU BURN THE HATEFUL NAMES FROM HISTORY."

"We'll what?" Ardashir said, taken aback. He wasn't certain what Orobas was about to talk them into.

"Shall we take them to the camp, Lord of the Mere?" one of the more hardened Năluci said. He was a tall man with a jet black beard and long hair, both woven with dried grasses. His falchion had many notches along the back of the blade. His armor was leather, like Khagra's, but dyed green and brown in mottled patterns.

"YES. I WILL ACCOMPANY YOU," Orobas said. "LET US GO."

"These people tried very hard to kill us," Khagra said to the demon. "Perhaps we shouldn't walk into their camp?"

"THAT WAS BEFORE THEY KNEW YOUR PURPOSE, KHAGRA OF THE WING," Orobas said. "BESIDES, YOU ARE THE SISTER OF MURDAK WAR-SON. HE IS A STRONG ALLY OF THEIRS. IT WAS FOOLISH TEMPER THAT RAISED THEIR IGNORANT HAND AGAINST YOU. WITH MY WORD BESIDE YOU, IT WILL NOT HAPPEN AGAIN. WILL IT, HADAD?"

The serious Năluci shook his head. "Never," he said. He was wearing a circlet of his own, made of small yellow flowers. Holland recognized it: the mark of a student of the druidic magics. But he would never be able to master the art, not if the tradition was truly dead and gone. "The hands of the Năluci must never strike the kin of the Horned King. Forgive us."

"Fair enough," Holland said with a shrug, sheathing her sword again. Khagra hadn't managed to recover her old sword of war, but Solace would certainly serve now that it was disguised.

"You're not angry?" Khagra said, surprised.

"They weren't treacherous," the penitent said. She'd long ago learned not to have a grudge against every person who tried to kill her. After all, then she would have never gotten along with Alan. "Just hostile. If this was my last refuge, I might have done the same. Are you the leader of these people, Hadad?"

"No, I am only a healer," Hadad said. "They serve the Horned King. I am sorry for their misstep. Pain has made them quick to temper."

"That is many marks in the blade for a healer," Khagra commented. She was familiar with the tradition—it came from the orcs further to the north. She didn't practice it herself, but she had always been less focused on honors in war than her brother, who lived and breathed it.

Hadad smiled faintly. "Preventative medicine."

Orobas fell into step beside Holland, consciously slowing his long stride to keep pace with the still-healing penitent. "I KNOW THAT YOU HAVE MANY QUESTIONS," he said. "MOST OF THEM, I CANNOT ANSWER FOR YOU. I AM...SORRY."

"You gave me a heart," Holland said softly. "Why did you make it hollow?"

"HOW ELSE COULD IT BE FILLED?" Orobas said patiently. He set a clawed hand on her back in a surprisingly comforting way for a demon. And, as twisted as it was, Holland felt herself actually calm a little bit at the touch. This creature, with his doubt and his iron claws, had done more for her than she could have ever expected. That made her strangely grateful.

"Did you know my mother?" she asked quietly.

"IN A WAY," Orobas said calmly. "MOST OF WHAT I KNOW IS ACADEMIC, LEARNED BY READING RECORDS AND HER HISTORY. SHE WAS A CHILD OF THE VÃDUVA OAMENI, BUT NOT A WITCH. SUCH A LITTLE THING. BUT STRONG, CUNNING, FEARLESS. THAT WAS WHAT MADE HER BLOOD WORTHY OF SARAQAEL'S IMMORTAL. SHE WAS A CAPTIVE, NOT A CITIZEN."

"That is not what Saraqael told me," Holland said, an ashen taste in her mouth.

"THE TRUTH WOULD HAVE SERVED NO PURPOSE, AND YOU KNOW HIS FEELINGS ON THINGS WHICH SERVE NO PURPOSE," the demon said. "SHE HATED ME. HATED WHAT I WAS DOING TO HER CHILD. I DO NOT BLAME HER." He observed Holland again. "I AM GLAD I GAVE YOU HER EYES."

"Why is that?" the penitent asked.

Orobas was quiet for a very long moment, his eyes staring into the distance and perhaps into the past at the same time. "BECAUSE THEY WERE BEAUTIFUL."