Chapter 16 Vargath
VARGATH
"The southern patrols are stretched thin." I spread the crude map across the scarred wooden table, my finger tracing the vulnerable points along our borders. "We need to pull two squads from the eastern watch."
Gargan leans forward, his broken tusk catching the firelight as he studies the markings. "That leaves the mine roads exposed. Dark elves hit supply trains, not fortified positions."
"Better to lose ore than warriors."
"Tell that to the council when winter stores run low."
I'm about to respond when boots pound against stone in the corridor outside—too fast, too urgent. The door crashes open without ceremony.
A young guard stumbles in, chest heaving, eyes wide with something between panic and revulsion. Blood spatters his leather jerkin in dark, irregular patterns.
"Warleader—"
"Catch your breath first." I set down the charcoal stick I'd been using to mark patrol routes. "Then speak."
He gulps air like a drowning man. "The elder. Maedra. She's—" His voice cracks. "Dead, sir. Murdered."
The map suddenly seems insignificant. I straighten slowly, every muscle coiling with tension. "Where?"
"Temple district. Her chambers. Throat cut clean through."
Gargan's chair scrapes against stone as he rises. His hand moves instinctively to his weapon. "How long ago?"
"Can't say for certain. Found her maybe an hour past. Blood was... there was so much blood."
I'm already moving toward the door, but the guard's next words stop me cold.
"The walls, sir. Someone painted symbols. In her blood."
I take a deep breath in a struggle to control my violent temper. "What kind of symbols?"
"Don't know, sir. Never seen their like."
I push past him into the corridor, Gargan falling into step beside me. The temple district isn't far, but every second stretches like hours. My boots echo off ancient stones as we navigate the twisting passages between the old human architecture and newer orc additions.
The smell hits me first—copper and something else, something burned. Then I see the crowd gathered outside Maedra's chambers, warriors and servants alike clustered in nervous knots, their voices dropping to whispers as I approach.
They part like water before my advance.
The door stands open, revealing the carnage within. Maedra lies crumpled beneath the cold brazier, her gray-green skin now ashen in death. The ceremonial robes she wore are soaked through with blood, dark stains spreading across the fabric like spilled ink.
But it's the walls that make my stomach turn. Symbols smeared in crimson cover nearly every surface—not random violence, but deliberate artistry. Crude representations of flames being extinguished. A pregnant woman with her belly slashed open. A child's skull crushed beneath a boot.
"Gods' blood." Gargan's voice carries genuine shock. "This wasn't robbery."
"No." I kneel beside Maedra's body, careful not to disturb the scene. Her eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling, but her hands are positioned deliberately—one pointing toward the door, the other clutching something. "This was a statement."
I pry her fingers open. A small piece of charred wood falls into my palm—part of the sacred flame that burned outside Seris's door.
Ice rushes through me, followed by te heat of rage.
I bolt from the chamber, ignoring Gargan's shout behind me. The corridor to Seris's quarters has never seemed longer. My heart pounds against my ribs like a caged beast as I round the final corner.
The brazier outside her door is cold. Dead. Not even embers remain.
I throw open her door without knocking, my heart slamming a violent rhythm like a war drum. The room is dim, lit only by dying embers in the brazier, and for one terrible moment I think—
But there she is. Curled beneath the furs, one hand resting protectively over her belly even in sleep. Her chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, dark hair spilled across the pillow like ink.
Relief floods through me so violently my knees nearly buckle.
She stirs at the sound of my entrance, blinking slowly in the firelight. When her eyes focus on me, confusion creases her features.
"Vargath? What's wrong?"
I can't find words. How do you tell someone that the only person who showed them kindness in this gods-forsaken place has been butchered like livestock?
She sits up, the furs pooling around her waist, and the concern in her voice sharpens. "You look like you've seen death itself."
"Maedra is gone."
The words fall between us. She blinks once, twice, as if she didn't hear correctly.
"Gone where?"
"Dead. Murdered."
The color drains from her face so quickly I think she might faint. Her hand flies to her throat, fingers trembling.
"No. No, that's—she was just here. She brought me tea before I slept. She was—"
"Someone cut her throat and painted the walls with her blood."
She makes a sound like a wounded animal and scrambles from the bed, her pregnant belly making the movement clumsy. I reach to steady her, but she pushes past me toward the door.
"I have to see her. I have to—"
"Seris, don't."
But she's already running down the corridor, bare feet slapping against cold stone. I curse and follow, catching up as she rounds the corner to Maedra's chambers.
The crowd has grown. Warriors, servants, even a few council members mill about the doorway like carrion birds, their voices a low buzz of speculation and barely concealed excitement.
Seris pushes through them, and I see the moment she glimpses the carnage within. She goes rigid, then lets out a scream that echoes off the ancient stones—raw, primal, the sound of something breaking beyond repair.
"Get out!" She whirls on the gathered orcs, tears streaming down her face. "Get out! All of you!"
Rough laughter ripples through the crowd. One warrior—Thrakk, I think—grins with yellow teeth.
"Listen to the human giving orders. As if she has any right to speak in sacred halls."
"She was the last true elder!" Seris's voice cracks with fury and grief. "The last one who honored the gods, and you stand here like vultures!"
More laughter. Cruel, dismissive.
I step forward, letting my full height and authority fill the space. "Clear the area. Now."
The laughter dies. Warriors shuffle backward, but slowly, reluctantly. Their eyes hold no respect, only calculation. They're measuring me, wondering if I've grown weak.
"Who would dare kill an elder within temple walls?" My voice carries is full of command, but I see the truth in their faces—they don't care who did this. Some of them are probably glad.
Thrakk shrugs with theatrical indifference. "Old woman stuck her nose where it didn't belong. Bound to happen eventually."