The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2) (8 page)

Mæva turned to regard Asho and Kethe. "Those two. The three of us shall move quickly, under the cover of my protective magic."

Asho blanched. "Just the three of us? Going up to the Skarpheðinn range? Alone?"

Mæva smiled and nodded. "Precisely."

Kethe set her bowl aside firmly. "An intelligent choice. After all, we're going to die soon anyway. When do we leave?"

"Kethe!" Iskra's outrage was scalding. "How dare you speak so flippantly about such matters!"

"You think me flippant?" Kethe's gaze was steady and without remorse. "Hardly, mother dear. Merely honest."

The silence stretched out between them. Iskra wanted to take her daughter by the hand and drag her outside for a scolding. Wanted to pull her into a tight hug and weep into her hair. Torn between her desire to chastise and scold, all she could do was glare. Kethe held her gaze and then shrugged, dismissing her, and returned her attention to her bowl of food.

"A scouting mission," said Iskra at last. "Am I understood? Get as much information as you can without imperiling yourselves, and then return for us to plan further." She paused and stared levelly at Kethe. "Am I understood?"

Kethe pursed her lips and then shrugged one should. "Yes, mother."

"Good. Mæva, what do you need to do to prepare?"

"Nothing. I am ready to depart immediately. We should leave now, so as to make the most of the sunlight. We've a long climb ahead of us."

"Good. Asho, Kethe?"

Asho rose to his feet. "I can be ready in ten minutes."

"Same here," said Kethe, rising lithely to her feet. "I'll meet you two up front by the gate. Take care, everyone." That said, she turned and walked toward her corner, where her pack and armor rested.

Mæva smiled and rose as well, Ashurina scampering up to rest on her shoulder. "Ser Wyland, may I have a word?"

It almost looked like the older knight was going to refuse her, but then he sighed and nodded, and followed the witch to one side of the great hall with a look of helpless fascination on his face.

Iskra looked up to where Asho was standing. "Ser knight. Promise me one thing."

He lowered himself smoothly to one knee. "Anything, my lady."

She turned to watch Kethe fixing her pack. "Bring my daughter back to me. I feel her drifting. Her powers are growing and they will destroy her if she indulges in them too often. Don't let her use them unless it's a matter of life or death. Please. Bring her back to me."

Asho followed her gaze. "I swear I'll bring her back if it's within my power to do so, my lady. You have my word on it as your knight."

"Good," said Lady Kyferin, already feeling very alone. "Thank you, Ser Asho. May the Ascendant watch over you all."

Asho bowed his head but not quickly enough to hide his sour expression. Iskra remembered too late that he had killed a Virtue just the night before. What did such blessings mean to him now? Before she could ameliorate the situation, he rose and departed.

Iskra rubbed her hands together nervously, then caught herself and stopped. Somehow she doubted very much that the Ascendant was watching them with any sign of favor. She was allying with his greatest enemies and sending her people up into the mouth of Hell, a forgotten Black Gate that was guarded by who knew what evils.

Jander's words echoed in her mind. But what choice did she have? So be it. If she had to damn herself right down to being reborn a Bythian, she would do so. She would do anything if it meant saving her son from the clutches of their enemies.

CHAPTER FIVE

Tharok awoke early. He dressed and donned his armor in the dawn sunlight, then descended to the courtyard of Porloc's enclosure where Nok awaited him, Shaya sitting alert and nervous on the back of their mountain goat. The city of Gold was silent, a pall of smoke hanging in the air and battling with the stench of spoiled meat and spilt wine. Tharok, filled with purpose, merely nodded to his two companions and then strode out through the unguarded front gate.

The night of revelry had taken its toll, and most of the kragh were lying asleep in their huts or in the streets where they had fallen. It was as if a great pestilence had laid waste to the city over the course of the night. Little stirred but stray cats and the occasional elderly kragh female moving to a well. The only other traveler along the main road out of Gold was a large caravan being pulled by four ponies. Tharok identified its owner by the massive stone troll that moved lethargically alongside, its hideous head hanging low, nose beetling out over its lips, bat ears twitching irritably as it slouched along.

"To where do you travel?" he asked, looking up to the human sitting high on the caravan seat. The man was dressed in armor today, his slender form encased in supple scales as delicate as those of a fish. Tharok tried to not look impressed, but was unsure if he had succeeded. Never had he seen something so finely crafted.

"Up the Chasm Walk and across the mountains to the north," said the trader. "Grax grows lonely. I have promised to return him to his home."

"How do you speak with him?" asked Tharok, looking at where the stone troll was lumbering, head and shoulders visible though he was walking on the far side of the caravan.

"That, friend kragh, is my secret and mine alone. Actually, you look familiar. You almost made Grax's personal acquaintance yesterday, did you not?"

"I found wisdom, I'm glad to say," said Tharok. "I'm also heading up the Chasm Walk, along with my tribe and the Crokuk. Perhaps we will see you on the road north."

"Perhaps," said the human. "Until later, friend kragh."

They left behind the city of Gold, with its stink and muddy streets, and followed the path to where the Red River tribe was camped. Their few dozen huts seemed insignificant in comparison to the city, but it warmed Tharok's heart to stand before them and know that they were his: his highlanders, his kragh. Already they were up, not grown soft with city life, dismantling their huts and rolling up skins, mounting their loads onto the backs of their mountain goats and mules.

Tharok strode through the small camp, raising his hand as others greeted him. He sought out the central campfire, and there found several kragh seated around the smoky flames that burned and danced on green branches. Amongst the kragh there were Maur, the shaman Golden Crow, and Barok the sword master.

"Dawn finds you well," said Tharok, taking a seat on a log by their side.

Nok stopped at the edge of the clearing, taking everything in, one great hand placed on Shaya's shoulder. Maur was scooping up a mush of grains and goat milk from her pan, and Golden Crow was sitting with a wet poultice on his brow.

"'Well' is relative, warlord," said the shaman, his voice hoarse. "The spirits cursed me with too many visions last night. My head swims."

"From the amount you drank, I'm surprised you didn't float off altogether," said Maur, and then she looked to Tharok. "Where are the Crokuk?"

"I expect them shortly." Tharok reached out and took a pan that was handed to him, hot grains steaming in the chill morning air.

"And then to war," said Maur, shaking her head. "I thought we made you warlord because, unlike Wrok, you were going to keep us free of senseless violence."

"It is our nature to fight," said Barok, his voice low and even. "We are kragh. We are the chosen of Ogri. There is no glory in dying of old age unless you are a shaman or a woman."

"Yes, the lack of common sense amongst you males is well known to us all," said Maur. "Still, I don't understand your moves. You give up World Breaker only to become Porloc's attack dog and do him more favors. Why?"

Barok took a breath. "The warlord has got good reasons."

"What, exactly, are they?" demanded Maur.

"He will bring glory to the Red River," said the sword master, eyeing Maur with a yellowed eye. "He will unite us. Already we are five hundred stronger."

"The sword master speaks truth," said Tharok before Maur could respond. "Think, wise woman. Only a week ago we were but fifty warriors. Now we are five hundred and fifty."

"But the Crokuk don't take their orders from you," said Maur.

"Not yet, they don't."

"Still, why give up World Breaker? That was given to you by Ogri. It was to be your symbol of power."

"If I had held on to the sword," said Tharok, turning to face Maur, "what would have happened?"

"The kragh would have flocked to your banner," she said. "Knowing that you were Ogri's chosen."

"True, but only some. The riffraff, the independent tribes perhaps. But not the Orlokor. Not the Tragon. The great lowland tribes that number in the tens of thousands would not have just come and followed me. No, they would have sent thousands against me and taken the sword by force. Perhaps we could have hidden in the higher peaks, but to what end? If I had held the sword, I would have been declaring myself a threat to Porloc, to the Tragon brothers, to every warlord who walks. No, we are not yet strong enough to hold on to that blade."

"So, you give it away," said Maur, anger in her voice.

"If you like," said Tharok with a slow smile, "you can consider it a loan."

Maur scowled at him. "You play with Ogri's blessing. You barter and hand out his sword as if it were a piece in politics, not sacred to his spirit."

Tharok opened his mouth but it was Golden Crow who responded first. "Do not concern yourself with what is sacred to Ogri, wise woman. That is the province of the shamans. And I can swear to you that he does not care." Golden Crow stood. "Still. Beware, warlord. The spirits are not your playthings. You will call down disaster upon us yet through your calculations." Then the shaman turned and stalked off, leaving a trail of silence in his wake.

They watched him go, and then Maur shook her head. "He's right. You are too smart for your own good."

"Nothing," said Tharok, his voice tight, "that I cannot handle. In that you can trust." He stood and pointed at Nok and Shaya. "They are with me. They are of my clan, and I want them treated as such. Clear?" He stared at all who were gathered about him, and then nodded to the huge kragh and the human slave. "Eat, before it is all gone."

"And you, Tharok?" asked Nok, his voice a low rumble.

"I go to meet with the Crokuk. They approach."

They all turned and stared past the few tents that stood between them and Porloc's city of Gold. From around the city, moving in a large and chaotic mass, came a wall of lowland kragh. They were clad in black-painted armor and wielded spears that were tipped with steel so that it looked like a winter forest was marching toward them. Their leader, Nakrok, was riding a black horse at their front, and an obese kragh, no doubt the Crokuk shaman, was being carried on a wooden platform by ten others, his body wrapped in a bearskin, his sightless sockets staring about him as they moved. Little Toad, a member of the Red River, hurried along by their side.

"What is Toad doing with Nakrok?" asked Tharok to nobody in particular.

"He offered to guide them to our camp," said Barok.

Tharok sensed his warriors fanning out behind him as he moved forward onto the path. He wished that he was wearing a coat of armor like that of the human trader, but he would have to greet the Crokuk warlord on foot, in his leather jerkin, armed with nothing but his circlet of iron.

The horde of Crokuk came to a stop, but Nakrok rode closer, stopping some twenty yards away to dismount and hand the reins of the horse to a kragh who had jogged alongside on foot. Toad crossed the empty space between them in a hurry, not meeting Tharok's gaze, and melted into the ranks of the Red River.

Nakrok was young, Tharok saw, small even for a lowland kragh, but he moved with an easy confidence that made him seem larger. His bald head gleamed in the morning sun, and his grin as he approached the highland kragh was wide and predatory.

"Tharok, son of Grakor," said the Crokuk warlord as he drew close. "I hear I have you to thank for this assignment."

"I am always happy to share glory," replied Tharok.

"Even when it takes me far outside the area of my concerns, against kragh I personally have no grudge against."

"The Tragon offend the Orlokor. I thought you counted yourself one of them."