XXVII. Murdak's Test

"That is not a fair fight," Ardashir said. He could feel a violent anger rising in his chest, but he bit it back. Was this what orcs felt like all the time? He wasn't certain he could stand it. He'd always considered himself to be a relatively reasonable man, but right now the idea didn't seem to be fitting him quite right.

"I agree," Vladan rumbled as he watched Holland approach the ten-foot-tall figure. There was a large clear space around them, but ranks of orcs formed a ring. Murdak had insisted that the challenge be a trial by combat much like Khagra had fought against Olon, but instead of having Holland fight everyone who took issue with the idea of her giving orders, he had chosen a champion: the biggest, nastiest creature under his banners. "We should see if the ogre has a brother too. That would make it fairer."

"Vladan!" the knight barked.

Khagra put her hand on Ardashir's arm. "It's Holland," she said. "She'll be fine. She's too stubborn to die. You didn't panic like this when I fought Olon. Have some confidence in her, like you did in me."

"Olon was a third his size. The head of that club is the size of her torso," the knight said. He knew he was starting to sound unreasonable, but he couldn't help it and Holland wasn't here to tell him to back off. "We should be with her."

Vladan looked at him dubiously. "That would be unfair. Don't you knights know anything about duels?"

"Hush, brute. He'll pop an artery if you keep at it," Khagra said before turning her attention back to the human. "Ardashir, I promise you that she will walk off that field. I know you're upset that you're not out there guarding her back, but this is something she has to do on her own."

"Should have had her sock your brother in the mouth," Ardashir mumbled.

Rather than taking offense, Khagra shrugged. "He wouldn't be able to back her up then," she said. "They're going to be dying because she asked them to. This is a chance for her to prove she's strong enough to make it worth it. A title isn't enough for an orc. They need blood."

"And everyone wants to see hers," the knight muttered. "Gods' breath, but she's going to die of a thousand cuts before the demons even have their chance."

Vladan grinned. "He looks like a weeper," he said, looking up at the towering figure. The behemoth, Drokug, apparently doubled as a siege weapon. Looking at the club, it was easy to see why. Runes glowed in the long, tapered bar of metal. Now that the ogre had picked it up, the whole weapon had begun to turn cherry red with heat as flames danced along its length. It wasn't enough for her to fight a massive ogre—he had to be one with a magic weapon too. It was the remnant of some demon's arsenal, no doubt lost long ago only to be recovered by the orcs.

"Do you just want to fight in her place?" Ardashir snapped.

"Depends. Do you think they'd let me? I've never punched an ogre before."

"No," Khagra said sternly. "There are traditions. No one can fight for someone else to become Goth. Find your own ogre, Vladan."

The anthroparion looked over at her hopefully. "So, he does have a brother?"

"Not. Now." Ardashir's voice was a hiss, his brow furrowed intently and his lips pulled back in a grimace.

He couldn't find it in himself to be angry with Khagra, but he certainly wasn't pleased with the situation they were in now. He hated watching and being unable to do anything. Holland deserved the benefit of the doubt, in his mind. Fionn hadn't given it to her, Olon hadn't given it to her. Both the Năluci and the elves would have cheerfully put her in the grave. Now the orcs wanted her to fight a battle stacked heavily against her. It was enough to drive him up the wall. But it served the purpose. Just one more thing to be done. Maybe that was why Holland had just nodded, rolled her shoulders to loosen up for the fight, and followed Murdak. If the orcs were going to die for her, she should be ready to die for their loyalty.

Gods, but he hated it.

Khagra's hand stayed on his arm, offering him a silent comfort. He didn't care if Murdak saw. He had half a mind to go punch her brother himself for putting Holland in harm's way. Necessary, yes. But that didn't mean he would ever approve.

In the middle of the clear space, Holland touched her sword's edge to the burning club to signal she was still willing to fight. Murdak motioned for both of them to move back until they were out of each other's reach. "Ready?" he asked them both.

Drokug grinned. "Always," he rumbled.

Holland just nodded. She could feel restless energy pouring into her veins as the sorcery came alive. It was stronger than it had been in a long time. Orobas had refreshed her boons. The power that she'd lost over the past two and a half decades of separation from Saraqael was back in full force, from what she could tell. This wasn't going to be easy by any stretch of the imagination, but that made it a little less daunting. Still, Khagra had warned her that winning this wouldn't be enough. She was going to have to prove she could take pain. That meant getting hit. She forced herself to look at the ogre and not at his weapon.

Well, let's get it over with, she told herself as she raised her sword into a neutral guard.

The ogre charged her, winding back and swinging from the hips as hard as he could. He meant to kill her. Holland didn't dodge even though she could hear Ardashir shout. She just relaxed. Her ribs broke inward on impact and she felt her feet leave the ground. The brute hurled her through the air just like Moloch had, albeit with a much more wicked strike than what the demon had battered her with. She hit the ground about as gracefully as that time too, skidding across the dirt. Her armor was smoldering, but it hadn't been crushed in. Her ribs were definitely in her left lung, though. She could tell mostly because breathing was a lot harder than usual. What she didn't know was whether the crowd was cheering the ogre or her ears were just ringing.

Holland picked herself up, feeling no pain. It was like the world had all fallen into place. She didn't know that she could beat back the Princes of Iron—in fact, she was almost certain that she couldn't. She didn't know how to deal with the destiny that was sitting in front of her—here, she was also nearly convinced that she couldn't. She didn't know if Seva would ever look at her the same way she looked at the queen. The answer was probably equally negative. Suddenly, however, at least for a brief moment, none of that mattered. She was exactly where she was meant to be, doing exactly what it was she was meant to do: on a battlefield, hurting things. His back was to her and his arms were raised victoriously. More unfortunate for him, really. She had a lot of frustration to work out.

She twisted her neck, breaking herself free of the tension of torqued muscles in a series of cracks. The roaring suddenly faded. The crowd was very, very surprised. Apparently the orcs had never seen anyone get up after being hit by Drokug that way.

Holland kicked the back of his knee, dropping him. She could have kicked in the side, but that would have broken the joint and ended the fight. She wanted this one to last a while. After all, there was a good chance it would be a while before the next one. She slammed her pommel into one of the nerve clusters at the base of his neck. It was a reach, but she hit it hard enough to drop him completely to the ground. For a moment, he was immobile, his body not responding to his racing thoughts. Then his ability to move came back.

She didn't bare her teeth or snarl or do anything the orcs were used to. "Get up." The words were an order to the ogre, not a challenge. Her ribs were snapping themselves back into place as that wonderful black ice flowed through her veins. It was like coming home after a long, long time away or putting on a favorite set of old clothes, comfortably worn enough to fit perfectly. Only this time, she was doing it for herself. Not for Saraqael.

No, that wasn't quite right. She was doing it for Seva. You'd burn the world just to hear those three little words...

Drokug picked himself up, grabbing his club. He swung for her legs and she stepped just a hair's breadth out of reach. He'd overcommitted, just like on that first blow. Once the bar went past her, he had no recovery. She wrapped one hand around the middle of her blade and used it to choke up on the blade. Instead of hitting him with the tip, however, she slammed her pommel into his solar plexus. He dropped again, gasping like a fish. She felt a distant sympathy. It was hard to breathe through a blow like that. It had taken her at least ten years to learn.

Drokug was strong. He had probably been fighting since he was a child.

So had she. The difference was that he'd made war his home for maybe two decades, that being the generous assumption. She'd been in combat for more than two centuries. He was a warrior. She was War. There was an artistry to her every movement. This was what Saraqael had driven her to: perfection.

"Hit me." Another order, not a goad, as he rose. It was like training with Laenus all over again. That impulsive, sensitive nature of his had always made him rush headlong into attacks without thinking. She'd knocked the younger Immortal head over heels for it a thousand times. It was the same fits of temper she'd seen when he broke her body on the saltire.

Time to test dwarven steel to its limits. The club started to swing and so did she, putting every ounce of force she had behind it. There was an actinic flash as she drove the edge of her sword through the club. Everything smelled like ozone and burning flesh. Drokug hadn't even been able to howl in pain—the power unleashed by the destruction of the weapon had raced up his arms and locked his muscles for a moment, just like hers. But Holland knew what happened when a demon's weapon broke. He didn't. He just looked horrified, as if he really had believed it was an unbreakable weapon.

Death comes to us all, she'd told Laenus, just as she'd been told. Did those words come from Saraqael? Did he know that he could be killed?

He had to, if he feared the Desolate Throne's power.

"I said hit me. Try it again."

The words were cold, just like her.

Drokug picked up a broken half of the club. It was sharp now, sheared off to form a point. He was smart enough to adjust his grip and hold it like a knife, keeping it back away from her. That was good. That showed promise. Maybe there was hope for him after all.

Maybe he won't die the first time he lays eyes on the next monster.

The air was dead silent, but Holland barely noticed. She was only attentive enough to make certain there were no other threats. For the most part, she had eyes only for Drokug. He lunged, trying to drive the sharp end through the center of her chest. She stepped off line and slapped the back of his thighs with the flat of her blade in punishment for his misstep. Painful, humiliating, but far from fatal. It was the same treatment she'd given Laenus. He was the only one that she had ever really trained. Galeo had only gotten a few lessons here and there, far short of the rigor and discipline demanded by Immortals. Saraqael considered it a waste of her valuable time to saddle her with a charge, and she'd at least initially agreed with him. But there had been a brief lull in the wars and Laenus had been particularly promising, so the Divine Prince had passed the task to her for a few years. It bored her at first, but then she'd started to take satisfaction in it. It made her understand how a blacksmith could enjoy hammering on a piece of metal all day.

It was the first time she'd ever made something, helped something grow. Everything else she'd burned to the ground. Everything else she touched turned into ashes.

Drokug whirled on her, enraged. He whipped the club at her head, slicing a gash across her face. Holland didn't even flinch. Now she could feel the burn, taste the blood. The smell of that lightning smoke was rising from her gauntlets. The only thing missing was the light of leaping flame, dancing in dead eyes.

She knew she should be angry. It was so easy for the others. They picked up a weapon and their heart burned. They could feel, like Orobas said. At the end of the day, she wasn't certain Orobas was right about her. She wasn't certain that she really could feel.

Holland felt distantly like she should kill Drokug. She didn't hate him or dislike him. It was just the merciful thing to do. Life is pain. However, mercy was secondary to her purpose. So she flipped her blade with effortless grace so that she was holding it by the blade and then she hit him in the side of the head with the hilt, dropping him like a stone. Probably a skull fracture, certainly a concussion, but a love tap compared to what she'd done to his weapon.

What was it Vaeroth had said? This one is broken. Fetch me another.

Apparently Orobas really had thrown a little bit of elf into her blood. She heard someone shouting her name and slowly, the power started to ebb. The pain trickled back in as the world suddenly became oddly unreal, like she was just drifting in the grey. She turned her head towards her approaching friends. "Khagra, he needs a healer," she said. Her voice sounded a little bit flat still, but more like her normal self. It had some inflection in it. That was a promising sign.

"Baerok is seeing to him," Khagra said, motioning to one of the orcs hurrying onto the field. "Gods, Holland, that was a hell of a hit. How are your ribs?"

"Broken," the penitent admitted. The silence was faded as murmuring started to ripple through the orcs.

"I apologize for doubting you," Ardashir said, reaching out to steady her.

Holland waved him away. "I'm fine."

"At least you're wearing your armor this time," Khagra said. She seemed reassured by the fact that Holland was still walking and talking, though it was also a little unsettling. "It looked like it must have hurt."

"It must have," Holland agreed. She blinked a little bit to clear her vision. There was still some after-flash floating in her view from the explosion that had been the weapon breaking. She checked the edge of her sword with her thumb. "Not a nick. Dwarves do seem to know what they're doing."

"That was great!" Vladan bellowed as he swept Holland off the ground into a bear hug.

"Ribs!" Khagra snapped, thumping on the anthroparion. "Put her down, brute!"

Vladan scowled at the scolding, but set Holland back down on her feet. He scrunched his nose up to demonstrate his joy. "Where were you hiding that, Holland?"

The penitent sighed. "Where it should stay," she murmured. "But at least now that it's back, it's going to good use. Let's go see Murdak."

"Right here," the orc boomed. He held out his hand solemnly when she turned to face him. "Welcome to the clan, Goth. I have to admit, I didn't expect that much restraint. Or resilience, for that matter."

Holland clasped his hand. "I'm not a family woman, Murdak. I'm a poor addition to a clan."

He grinned. "We'll teach you. Now, go get some healing like a good leader and then we'll discuss what has to be done. It'll probably take a few months to get all the clans moving in the right direction, granted, but we can kick things off now." He leaned in. "You'd make a great orc, Holland."

"I'm barely managing to pass for human right now. Let's not push the envelope that far," the penitent said dryly. She could feel the invisible weight settling back on her shoulders. "Murdak, I can't be here for a few months. Yssa and the others need to know that you're coming or there really will be a panic in the south."

"Hmm...good point," Murdak murmured. "Well, stay for a day or two. Let the clans get to know you and maybe put something cold on those ribs. Can't have you dying before we've kicked at least one demon prince in the teeth."

"You say the sweetest things, oaf," Khagra said with a roll of her eyes. "Come on, Holland."

The pain was approaching the level where Holland wasn't certain if she could see straight. "What was I thinking?" she muttered, letting Khagra tug her away.

"When you let him hit you? Apparently nothing," Ardashir said with a sigh. "Would you please never do that again? I about had a heart attack."

"It was pretty funny to see the look on his face, though," Vladan said with a chuckle.

Holland laughed, which she immediately regretted. The world went black for a second before swimming into focus again. She must have stumbled, because she realized that Ardashir and Khagra were now holding her up. "Sorry...I...missed...it?"

"She needs to lie down," Khagra muttered. "I'm not certain enough air is reaching her brain right now."

The penitent managed to get out a coherent sentence through the agony, by some miracle. "What's...Vladan's...excuse?"

"You're lucky you're injured, or I'd slap you," the dragon-rider groused. "Vladan, make yourself useful and carry her, would you? She's heavier than she looks when she goes limp like that."

Holland closed her eyes and sank into the black, completely confident in her friends' ability to look after her. Maybe she was still doing the same thing as she'd always done, but it was different this time around. She had things that were worth fighting for.

It was hours before she woke up, probably Khagra's doing. Being unconscious for that long would have likely been deadly, so anesthetic was probably at work. The pain in her side had receded down to a manageable but very unpleasant ache. It only took her a split second to remember where she was and what the hell she'd done earlier. Not your best decision, she said to herself. Apparently Murdak's lack of wisdom is contagious.

"Ah, you're up," Thadash said with a faint smile. He was sitting cross-legged at her side. "Khagra and her knight were watching over you. I took over so they could eat."

Holland sat up with a groan. She didn't have to look to know that the left half of her ribcage was a giant bruise. "You know about them?"

"Khagra is more like Skolg than Murdak, but in some ways, she's as subtle as her brother," the shaman said with amusement.

"And the verdict?"

"He makes her happy," Thadash said with a shrug. "That's good enough."

Holland glanced over at her armor for a moment. There were runes scorched onto the surface of her breastplate from that club. They would be a pain to scrub off, but she figured she could do it when her side hurt less. "Is that what you think or what Murdak thinks?"

"He'll come around once he finds out," Thadash said with a shrug. "I'll tell him once you're a few days down the road. Until then, a little ignorance won't hurt him."

"He won't figure it out?" Her back popped as she stretched gingerly. It was almost as unhappy as her ribs. It was entirely possible he'd cracked some vertebrae too with that hit. The ogre had a good arm, that was for certain.

"In Murdak's eyes, Khagra is still seven years old. I don't think it'll occur to him that she's grown until she's finding her first grey hair. Or maybe when she and the knight get married he'll notice. Until then, I wouldn't lay money on him figuring anything out on his own. His mind is an axe. Excellent for breaking things and battle, ill-suited for putting pieces together. It's part of his charm."

Holland nodded. "I wanted to thank you for last night," she said. "You didn't have to say what you did."

Thadash shrugged with a faint rattling sound from all of the pieces of bone he wore. "It's true, isn't it?"

"I don't think an ocean can wipe away what I did," Holland said quietly. "If it were that easy, I'd never have become a penitent."

"Have you always been a warrior, Holland?"

"A killer, yes," she said with a shrug. "The warrior half is...new." She ran her fingers through her hair, brushing out some dirt from when she'd collided with the ground after that blow. "I had to learn it, after everything else was stripped away. The truth is that Cruciata was dying for years before she was broken and cast into the sea. Doubt was eating away at the fabric of who she was. After enough of that, there was only a thread nicely primed for Laenus to snap just like her bones. Twenty-five years isn't a very long time, but it was long enough to find a way back from...that. One of my mentors used to say that no plan survives contact with reality. He also said, Holland, you never did know when to leave well enough alone. Prophetic words if ever there were any."

"Sounds like a wise man," Thadash said with a chuckle.

"Alan was a good one," Holland agreed. "He's the one who slapped some approximation of chivalry into me." She shook her head a little bit, admiration seeping into her tone when she continued. "Good arm for such a frail old man. I actually felt a couple of them. Lord Penitent Alan of Gray. What a piece of work. When he was young, the sight of him on the battlefield could break Leyan formations. They knew he'd charge into them like a gods-damned madman and kill their commander. It was a gift of his. Always knew which one in the sea of the same colors was giving the orders."

The shaman chuckled. "Atoning for old battles too?"

"No, those never bothered him. He was a proper knight. He only killed people with weapons pointing at him, and even then, only equal opponents on equal ground. If his lance knocked his opponent out of the saddle, he'd jump right out of it too no matter how bad the battle. I used to tell him that was the only reason he could run so fast at his age—years of practice chasing his horse across a battlefield." Holland felt herself relaxing and coming back to center as she spoke. Alan was a reminder of courage that wasn't a destructive force and more importantly, of temperance. "It was more a matter of things that he wished he could take back. He wasn't good with words and he was hard on his son. Galvyn was sensitive and sickly, and this was a younger, much more hot-headed Alan. Eventually, things came to a head. They fought until they were separated by Alan's sister. He cooled off quickly and then he went to apologize, but Galvyn was gone. It had only been a few hours. By the time Alan realized that the 'Lord Gray' who had joined the Yssan army to fight a border war was his son and not his brother, the boy was halfway to Leus."

"The boy died," Thadash said quietly.

Holland nodded. "He tried to be the son he thought his father wanted. Right at the tip of the vanguard, straight at a Leyan battlemage in full swing. I don't know if I could have done it, let alone a sixteen-year-old boy. It was a good death, a warrior's death, but it was still a death. After the funeral, Alan put on his armor, grabbed his sword, and promised the gods he would do everything in his power to bring every boy home safe from war that he could. He left everything behind: title, lands, power, wealth. None of it would bring him his son back, so he didn't want it."

The orc nodded. His eyes were understanding.

She sighed a little bit. "One of the first things he told me once we could have a conversation in the same language was, That's not anger, it's pain. That was when I wanted to go charging back across the sea in a vengeful fury. Then he slapped some sense and clarity into me, over the course of ten years and a lot of broken training blades. The world was simpler when he was alive."

"He would be proud of you," Thadash said. "You are not Cruciata any longer."

Holland shook her head. "Alan always said you never really know if a line's going to fail until the charge hits it. Orobas told me the same thing, in different words," she said. "And where we are...well, the drums are beating, the horn is calling, but the cavalry haven't even hit their full stride yet."

"You have the north, from what Khagra has told me," the orc said.

"I have a loose collection of alliances," the penitent said wryly. "That does not an army make. A few centuries of drilling in concert and testing ourselves in battle alongside each other and we'll be ready to hold them off, but we don't have that kind of time."

Thadash rested his chin on his fist to hide his nerves. "How long do you think we have?"

"It depends on how quickly they're moving through the Reach. It's a logistical nightmare, like the Mere. That place could bog them down for years, if we're lucky. Then they'll have to cross the Sundering Sea, which should take a while too. Then they'll start burning their way across the continent. If I know Saraqael, he's going to hit the southwest first and work his way north and east. He knows that if he can break the cities, he can break kingdoms. If they follow the coast, that's maybe a few more years before they reach Yssa...provided they hit good resistance. To clear the north will take longer. Few roads, people are more dispersed." It was a grim, grim thought. "If we disrupt their supply lines, it'll buy us more and more time, but eventually they'll figure something out. It's what they do."

The shaman rubbed a hand over his head, brushing over stubble. "Why are they doing this, Holland? I don't understand. Armies conquer. They capture. They take over. They kill and destroy, yes, but it's about things that I understand. Loyalty, territory, pride, revenge, greed. Why would they try to just wipe out everything?"

Holland felt a chill in the center of the chest as she thought back on her long life as Saraqael's servant. She couldn't pretend to know all the inner workings of that divine, perfect mind, but she was certain there was no room in it for pride or revenge or greed or nations. Loyalty was very much a one way street with him, so it certainly wasn't on Deus's behalf. He'd said as much. On some level, she even doubted it was about power despite what the Elentári had said. No, the answer was much more unsettling.

She took a deep breath and then said, "Because they can."