The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2) (18 page)

Tharok, chilled, could only nod, but that was enough for the blind shaman. Golden Crow turned and shuffled over to Krilla, who handed him a bowl before he even asked for it, then drifted away from the fire.

Tharok rose, knees popping, and shook his head. Troubled, he took two bowls, thanked Krilla and returned to his hut. Others were emerging now, stretching and snapping their jaws, and he saw that many did not meet his eye, and the few who did gave him only cautious nods.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed aside the goat skin and entered his hut. The sound of breathing was stronger. He moved around to the bed and sat on its edge. The small goat had woken, but it lay still, great liquid eyes open in the dark, breathing tremulously in the human's arms. Tharok set down the bowls of food, then reached out to touch her neck. Her pulse was stronger, and some color had come into her face.

"Shaya," he growled, but there was no response.

He grabbed hold of the kid's front leg and hauled it from the bed. It bleated and thrashed anew as it fell to the ground, then scrambled to its feet and ran out of the hut, indignant and scared.

Tharok took hold of the human's chin, moved her head from side to side, and then gave her cheek a gentle slap. Her eyes fluttered and then finally opened.

"Shaya," he said again, and took hold of her shoulder and sat her up. She moaned, drew her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms about them and began to shiver. "By the peaks," muttered Tharok. He drew the skins up and around her once more. "You humans. Here, pull these about you."

She reached out, took hold of the skins and drew them tight, then turned to look at him. "Cold," she said. "S-so cold."

"Yes, yes. Eat this." He took one of the wooden bowls and tried to hand it to her. Some steam yet rose from its lumpen surface. Shivering, she tried to take the bowl, but her hands were shaking too much. "Here, no, hold it steady, steady!" Tharok gritted his teeth and took the shallow spoon. "Fine. Open your mouth, and I'll slop this inside you as if you were my child." He took a large spoonful of the hot mush and forced it into her mouth. She immediately choked and reached for her throat, shoulders hitching.

"Here," said a voice, and Tharok looked around to see Nok standing in the entrance. "I'll do that if you wish."

"Good," said Tharok. He rose in impatience and disgust. "She's as useless and weak as a baby."

He handed Nok the bowl and stepped aside so that the larger kragh could take his place by the side of the bed. Shaya was trying to choke down the food Tharok had given her, her mouth open as she sought to let the grains cool before they scalded her further.

Tharok, brooding and angry now, moved to the far side of the hut and watched as Nok stirred the bowl's contents, then filled the spoon only halfway and held it up to the human's lips. She finally regained her senses, looked at him and then darted a quick look at Tharok. She pulled the furs tighter about her shoulders, then allowed Nok to carefully tip the spoon into her mouth.

For some ten minutes, Tharok watched. It took that long for Nok to get the contents of the bowl inside the human, for she could only eat in small pecks like a baby bird. He eventually sank into a crouch and wrapped his arms around his shins, his eyes on the pair of them. The larger kragh spoke to the human softly in an alien tongue, and when she had finally finished eating she sank back onto the bed, eyes closing, and Nok set the bowl aside and pulled the furs up to tuck her in.

"What do you two speak of?" asked Tharok quietly. His anger was gone, and having witnessed Nok's tenderness he felt the first stirrings of shame and self-reproach.

"She told me a little about her past. Betrayal. Rebellion. Secrets. Not enough to truly understand."

"You speak their language."

"Yes," said Nok. "I speak it a little."

"Where did you learn it?"

Nok turned from contemplating the human and looked at Tharok. "From a human clan. Long ago, it seems now, when I was but a child."

"A human clan," said Tharok. "How did you come to be amongst them?"

Nok returned his gaze to Shaya's face. "My clan was destroyed by a rival clan. My father had stolen his wife from the first clan – took her from her first husband during a raid. For five years we lived in peace, and then they came after us and killed my clansmen as we ran. They took my mother back with them, and returned her to her first husband. I was too young to fight, so I ran, and when I came back to camp there was nothing left. I took some food and set out to free my mother, but got lost. A few days later I came across a bear with her cubs, and she nearly killed me. The spirits brought a human to where I had collapsed, and for some reason he felt pity and took me to his home, where his wife tended me and helped me back to health."

Tharok sat still, listening in wonder as Nok spoke. "They healed you? For what? Did they plan to sell you?"

"No," said Nok sadly. "They didn't. They were good people. They healed me because I was hurt. No more, no less."

"They didn't wish to enslave you? I don't understand."

Nok turned to face Tharok once more, his great black braids shifting as he did so. "Not all humans are intent on killing us or using us, Tharok-krya. Some humans are willing to help."

Tharok frowned, but refrained from spitting. "All I have ever heard from the humans is how they use and kill us. This is... new to me."

"It is rare," said Nok softly. "They took me to the human city of Abythos, where they tried to teach me their religion. It is called Ascension. I tried to learn it, but it did not make sense to me. There is no room for kragh in Ascension. We are as low as animals in their eyes." Nok's voice was quiet, as if he were turning his memories over in his hands pensively, examining them from different angles. "But regardless, they raised me, took care of me, and ultimately paid a price for doing so. They had honor."

"Huh," said Tharok. He arose to stand next to Nok and looked down at the fine-boned face of the human. It was so delicate that it looked as if one blow would crush it. "You like them? The humans?"

"Not all of them," said Nok. "Not the slavers who captured me, or the vast majority who would use me as a beast of burden. But some. This one, for example. She is weak, near death."

"So, you would return the favor," said Tharok, nodding. "And pay off your obligation."

"There is no way to repay what I owe that family," said Nok. "And I don't attempt to do so now. I simply help her because she needs help."

Tharok studied Nok's harsh profile. The great black braids that fell down his back. The heavy brows, the mighty tusks. The wound that had created that cruel scar that curled around his lower jaw must have opened his face to the bone when it was first dealt. He was a great warrior, no doubt. He had wielded much authority to grow so large and dark skinned. But he was here taking care of this human with a tenderness one might show a mate.

"Why did your own tribe sell you into slavery?":

Nok's brow lowered. "I refused to accept blood satisfaction from the clan that stole my mother, many years ago."

Tharok grunted. "You wanted to destroy them completely?"

Nok grunted. "When I became warlord of the Urlor I took my mother back. Her tribe came after us and killed her. I swore to destroy them all."

"And your tribe did not approve?"

Nok shook his head slowly. "There was too much blood for them. They did not dare enrage the spirits by killing their own warlord, so they knocked me out and gave me to slavers."

Tharok grunted again. Unless Nok soon became warlord once more, his skin would begin to lighten, his massive size diminish. He was powerful enough to conquer any small highland tribe. It would be interesting to see if he would remain with the Red River when the opportunity arose.

"Tell me of Abythos. What is it like?"

Nok frowned and gazed into the middle distance. "It is a formidable city. Nothing like Porloc's Gold. It is all massive stone and great walls. Built to defend the portal to the human city of Bythos, to prevent another Ogri from smashing his way into human lands again."

Tharok mulled this over. "You know that I plan to wage war on the humans."

Nok nodded. "So I have heard."

"You will fight beside me?"

"I will help you unite the kragh. Then? We shall see. I have no love for most humans. The slavers. But neither do I hate them all."

Tharok nodded. "You have given me much to think about," he said. "You've complicated things. But come. Nakrok will soon be giving his answer. Let us learn if we are to fight the Crokuk, watch them leave, or see them join us as brothers as we go to our Grand Convocation."

Nok nodded. He reached out, smoothed the human's brow with his massive hand, then stood and followed Tharok out of the hut into the misty dawn light. Highland kragh turned out as Tharok passed. By the time he reached the central campfire, all the male warriors were by his side, and no small number of the women. But Krilla was gone, and her pot had similarly vanished.

Tharok had timed his arrival well. The outer edge of the highland kragh parted to admit the wedge of lowland Crokuk. Nakrok did not come alone this time. Instead, he entered the highland camp with over a hundred of his warriors, a full fifth of his force. It did not take a military genius to imagine that the other four hundred stood prepared to intervene at some pre-arranged signal. The Crokuk entered not with weapons drawn, but alert, without packs, fully armed and armored. The Red River kragh stirred, noting this, and the tension in the air began to creep up toward the Sky Father.

Tharok stepped forward to greet the other warlord. While Nakrok was armored in metal and had his blade by his hip, Tharok stood unarmed, wearing only his leather vest and breeches. They stood before each other, taking each other's measure, and then Nakrok spoke out, his voice strident as he pitched it for all to hear.

"The Crokuk are a mighty tribe. You see before you five hundred of our warriors, and I tell you that five hundred more wait with our women and children. We number in the thousands, and when we march together the very earth trembles. But here we are, part of our strength, high in the mountains, sent by our great warlord Porloc to fight alongside the Red River as allies, as friends."

Nakrok turned, ignoring Tharok now, and stared at the highlanders around him. "Last night your warlord, Tharok, threatened my life. He lured me into a council of allies and then ringed me with his men, weapons drawn. He threatened to kill me if I didn't obey him. Then he spoke of madness and the breaking of traditions. He spoke of secret enemies and powerful forces beyond the comprehension of we mere kragh. He set himself above us, he ridiculed us, and he gave us an ultimatum."

Only then did the lowland kragh turn to stare at Tharok.

"To follow him," Nakrok said, "or to leave, to return to the lowlands, the Tragon unpunished."

The tension was sliding ever higher. Highlanders were placing their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Eyes were beginning to glance from kragh to kragh as each took in the position of the other.

"I am Nakrok, warlord of the Crokuk. I have led the Crokuk for four years, and have never suffered defeat. I lead thousands of kragh into battle. Your warlord is Tharok. He has been warlord for a week, and as far as I know, has never led you to war."

Nakrok took a step forward and lifted his chin. "I say to you, I will fight the Tragon. I will even follow some of Tharok's advice, but on one condition: that he kneel before me, right here, right now, and beg for my forgiveness for offending me last night."

Tharok grinned, showing his tusks to full advantage. So that was how Nakrok wanted to play it. The Crokuk wanted to take Tharok's wisdom while crushing his authority and lead the whole venture against the Tragon. Not a bad move. No wonder Nakrok had earned a reputation for cunning.

All eyes were on Tharok now. Rabo was shaking his head, and Barok was frowning. Kharsh had raised his chin, his eyes glittering, little Toad by his side. Tharok could not see where Maur was standing. Tharok could sense Nok behind him, preparing himself for whatever might come.

"We are kragh," said Tharok at last. "We are, all of us, great and small, highland and lowland, Red River and Crokuk, first and foremost, kragh. We are not talkers. We are not politicians. We don't like cleverness. We like fist and sword. We like fire and blood. Where we see an enemy, we like to strike. Where we see a friend, we trust."

A wall of impassive faces stared at him. They were listening, at least. Nakrok had cast his face into neutrality.

"I am as likely to get on my knees before you, Nakrok of the Crokuk, as I am to smash you between the eyes and kill you dead with one blow. I could do both, but I will do neither." Tharok turned to those listening. "No, this is a question of leadership. Who leads? Who is the greater warlord? Who will give the commands on this expedition, Nakrok or me?"

The Crokuk kragh were drawing together, and Nakrok began to step back toward them, his eyes locked on Tharok, a victorious gleam in their depths.

"So, you refuse," said Nakrok. "You refuse the help of the Crokuk because you are too arrogant."

"No," said Tharok, shaking his head sadly. "What I refuse is your cowardice."

"Cowardice?" Nakrok froze. "More madness! By what right do you accuse me of cowardice, highland dog?"