Heart of Flame

XVII. Testing the Flame

"...and what if she never wakes up? She trusted us, Graaol! What if we led her to a death-sleep?"

Sorne's eyelashes fluttered and she groaned as she came back to consciousness, catching only the end of what Vridash was saying. Her mouth was dry and tasted of copper, no doubt from the blood that had congealed around her teeth. Her whole body ached and burned as if she had worked to exertion. Her head felt as though she'd dropped a mountainside on it. All in all, she'd had better days. Granted, this was not the worst she'd ever felt. "What did I miss?" she croaked, vision bleary as she scrubbed at her eyes with her hands.

Nirsal cooed at her in relief, shifting slightly. The dragon had curled around Sorne, her warm head against Sorne's shoulder with her wing draped over the njoshari initiate like a blanket.

Graaol chuckled. "I told you she was hard to kill."

"That was never in question, you old coot," Vridash said through his grin at the sight of Sorne stirring. He picked up his waterskin and approached cautiously. When Nirsal didn't react, he finished moving to be within arm's reach of Sorne and passed over the water. "How do you feel, little sister? Your dragon was growling at us whenever we got too close to you."

The three of them were in the entrance chamber, crystals dancing in the firelight. Sorne had been laid out on her bedroll a respectful distance from the campfire that Vridash and Graaol had made, no doubt with Nirsal's assistance. The orcs were beside her, though they were keeping a healthy distance. "Like I spent the night between Tethra's hammer and his anvil," Sorne said. She used some of the water to rinse her mouth out, spitting off to the side before drinking properly. "I hurt everywhere." She stroked the small scales just behind one of Nirsal's horns, earning a contented purr from her dragon.

"We thought you might, given the marks," Graaol said.

"Marks?" Sorne asked, looking down at herself. The scarring across her arms and hands was unchanged, but she immediately saw what the shaman was talking about. She hadn't been wearing her armor this trip, relying on her use of the chants, and someone—Nirsal, undoubtedly—had ripped away one of her sleeves. She could see black marks swirling across her skin just as the woad patterns used to channel magic more efficiently did. They were smooth, sweeping, intricate lines rather than the cruder version that had survived a thousand years of oral tradition and copying without understanding the complete meaning.

There was no taking it for anything other than what it was: a gift from Nessa. It was unmistakably the zahuv, the sacred markings said to be given to the orcs by the gods themselves. "I..."

Sorne pulled up her other sleeve, revealing matching markings to the light. She looked up at Graaol. "What is this?"

"You are the one who spoke with the Eternal Watcher," Graaol said. "Surely you know more than either of us. I have never heard of anything such as this happening. They were there when we found you."

"She helped me see into the Void, but there was a price," Sorne said. "She wanted me to be her champion."

Vridash grimaced. "I doubt she's the type to choose an easy foe."

"Deus," Sorne said, rubbing at the markings. They didn't smudge at all. It didn't feel like paint, either. She had a feeling that they were under her skin. "He has something to do with all of this."

Graaol pulled in a sharp breath. "The Deceiver," he said by way of explanation. "That is the foe the Queen of Night seeks to put to ruin by your hand. It seems that she has given you at least one gift to aid you in that battle."

Sorne shook her head slightly. "She said that we couldn't kill him. Only his servants," the human said. "I...saw them. A sea of monsters in black armor, covering the land. An enemy so great that the light of their fires made it impossible to see the stars above."