Though the Dark Lord might have opened his eyes to the beauty of raw flesh and fear, he had not totally burned away Kral’s honor. A lesser man might have been vanquished fully, enslaved completely. But in Kral’s veins ran the magick of deep, underground passages, of gray granite and black basalt, whorled agate and glassy obsidian, the bones of the world. Though the Black Beast of Gul’gotha had branded Kral’s spirit, the Rock had protected Kral’s deeper self. He was scarred by darkfire but not shattered.
“How long have we been traveling?” he growled.
Nee’lahn settled back, sinking into her cloak. “Almost a full day. Night nears.”
Kral moved to the plank walls of their prison. He tried to peer out between the slats, but he could discern little in the meager light. He closed his eyes, extending the senses of his inner beast. He listened to the tromp of hoof and boot, the rattle of short sword and ax. He counted the thudding heartbeats of his captors. Over a score of the cursed creatures—d’warves, the blood enemy of his people.
In ages past, the d’warves had wrested Kral’s clans from their ancestral home, the mighty mountain Citadel above the blue lake of Tor Amon. The slaughter—monstrous beasts, foul magicks, horrible sacrifices—was sung in ballads and woeful odes around the flames of clan hearths. Out of a people that had numbered in the tens of thousands, only a hundred had escaped, including Kral’s great ancestors, the last of the Senta Flame, the royal house. It had been his great-great ancestor who had last sat on the Ice Throne of the Citadel. The same man had led the ragged bands out of the mountains, abandoning their homelands to become wandering nomads. Kral clenched his fists, nails drawing blood from his palm. No longer would they wander! He would regain his birthright—the Ice Throne—and call his people home. He would restore honor to the Senta Flame. This he swore!
Lost in the past, he sat frozen as the wagon trundled farther and farther north. He became stone, unmoving. Two days passed him by. Food was shoved through a slit in the door: moldy bread and a meatless gruel. Kral ignored it. To the side, Nee’lahn tended to the prince, dribbling water over Tyrus’ lips. At night, the cold drew the other three to huddle together, but not Kral. He remained fixed, a boulder of granite—waiting, patient. Occasionally the prince would cry out, drawing his eye. Behind his screams, Kral heard the mindless terror and the gibber of the mad. He turned away, dismissing the man. Lord Tyrus’ body might live, but surely his mind was gone.
So the days passed by.
Only on the third day did Kral stir. Night had fully descended, and a bright moon hung high overhead, glimpsed through cracks in the roof. The wagon slowed, and the guttural chatter of the raiders grew raucous amid coarse laughter.
“We must be nearing this evening’s camp,” Nee’lahn whispered.
“I don’t know,” Mogweed mumbled, his face pressed to the forward wall, one eye peering out. “I see torches ahead, through the trees.”
“It is no temporary camp,” Kral warned. He felt the vibration in his blood. Tuned to the world’s bones, Kral knew what they neared. He gritted his teeth. He could not believe the others were deaf to the roaring in his head. It was as if they approached the shore of some storm-swept ocean, waves pounding on rock.
The wagon continued to slow. New noises intruded: the clash of steel, the whinnying cry of horses, the blare of horns. Kral inhaled deeply: smoke and pine, blood and sun-cured meat, the stink of trench latrines. They were approaching a major encampment. Between the wooden planks of the wagon, a fiery light grew. Calls were exchanged between their captors and outer sentries.
As the wagon rolled into the encampment, the noises enveloped them. Fists occasionally pounded on the sides of the wagon, applauding the raiders’ success. But still the wagon rolled.
“Where are we?” Mogweed asked, his eyes wide with fright.
Kral kept his silence. The wagon finally ground to a halt. No one breathed. Only Lord Tyrus stirred. He writhed in an unending nightmare, worse than ever.
Nee’lahn remained at the prince’s side. “What’s wrong with him?”
Tyrus’ eyelids suddenly flickered open. Fingers clawed the air. “The Wall . . .” Though his eyes were open and bright, there was no consciousness. “The Land’s voice . . . the pain . . .”
Nee’lahn tried to console him, holding his hands.
A jangle of keys drew Kral’s attention. It sounded from the rear of the wagon. He turned, fists clenching. With a loud clanking, a lock and chain fell away. Oak scraped oak as a bar was shoved free.
Kral braced himself. He touched the dark magick in his bones—the magick of Legion, his secret self tied to the chunk of ebon’stone in the iron heart of his ax. He sensed his weapon nearby, felt the leopard trapped under his skin, ready to burst free, teeth and claws sheathed in this human form. Still, he held back. There was power in secrets.
Hinged at the bottom, the rear door of the wagon crashed down, becoming a ramp to freedom. Beyond, the flames from fires and torches were blinding. Kral squeezed his eyelids to slits. After three days locked up in the dark wagon, the brightness stung.
A voice barked at them, coarse, in the common tongue. “Get your arses out here! Now!”
The speaker, a d’warf lieutenant, stood flanked by a half score of his comrades, all armored and bristling with weapons. The guards bore axes in one hand and spiked hammers in the other. Kral knew from experience that the squat creatures were skilled with both weapons, unnaturally dexterous with either limb. It was not a fight he could hope to win, not without the aid of weapons or the beast nested within his flesh.
Kral crawled first from the wagon, climbing down the ramp. Mogweed followed with Nee’lahn, the prince’s limp form slung between them.
The guards stared at the small party, wary. No one sheathed a weapon. Rumors of the battle under the Stone of Tor had reached these ears. No chances were taken. The lieutenant stepped toward Nee’lahn and Mogweed, but his eyes were on the unconscious form of the prince.
“He’s of no use,” the d’warf leader said. “Cut his throat and feed him to the sniffers.”
Kral noted a pen of purple-skinned beasts nearby, chained and tethered, like living pieces of twilight. Rows of fangs glinted. Sniffers. The most fearsome predators of the woodlands. Kral had once run the streets of Port Rawl as such a beast. Hunger and lust flared at the memory. Tender flesh, the spurt of hot blood . . .
One of the guards stepped toward the limp form of the prince.
Nee’lahn backed away with Tyrus. Mogweed abandoned the man completely, leaving the tiny nyphai bent under the prince’s weight.
Kral stepped between guard and prisoner. “No. I’ll not let you harm him.”
The guard raised his weapon. Kral stared at the d’warf; a low growl flowed from his throat. Kral let the beast inside shine forth. His vision grew more acute; his senses bloomed outward. He heard the d’warf’s twin heartbeats quicken.
The guard held his weapon, faltering a step.
The lieutenant raised his short sword and moved to the guard’s side. “The beasts are hungry. Mayhap we should feed you both to our pets.” The d’warf leader glanced up and down Kral’s large form. “Or maybe not. It has been a long time since my men and I have tasted the flesh of the mountain people. We’d make several good steaks and roasts out of you.”
Kral felt his control of the beast inside weakening. He kept his fists clenched, hiding the daggered claws of the leopard sprouting from the tips of his fingers.
The lieutenant raised his sword. “So make your choice. Move aside or die!”
Kral remained where he stood. “You’ll not harm the prince.” As the leopard within writhed, fur sprouted under Kral’s leathers. His pupils grew slitted.
The d’warf leader balked, clearly sensing a dark current here. Touched by the Black Heart himself, had this d’warf recognized the kindred spirit before him? The sword remained poised.
A new voice intruded. “Leave the captives be, Lieutenant!”
All eyes swung to
the right. Another d’warf approached. He was wider in form and heavier in bulk, twice the mass of the already large lieutenant. Atop his melon-sized head was a black cap with a silver insignia. Kral recognized the rank marking. The guards grew stiffer. Kral smelled their nervousness.
The lieutenant retreated a half step. “But, Captain Brytton, the man hanging in the woman’s arms is clearly too weak to work in the mines. I thought not to waste his meat. The sniffers—”
“Quiet, Lieutenant.” The captain moved toward Nee’lahn, who cringed back from him. “The mountain man is correct. No harm must come to this man. The griffin has marked him.”
“Sir?”
Captain Brytton waved to the guards. “Take them to the castle dungeons. All of them.”
Kral was baffled by the turn in events. The beast inside quieted. What was going on? He strode to Nee’lahn’s side and collected Tyrus up in his arms, unburdening her. As a group, they were led around the wagon.
Mogweed gasped as he turned, his gaze rising high into the air.
Kral understood his shock. Two hundred strides away, the world ended. The black granite shield wall known as the Northwall rose before them. Stretching a league into the sky, its surface was as polished as a piece of sculpture, reflecting the firelight and the moon and stars. It was too high for the mind to grasp. It was said that the air at its summit was so thin that none could breathe it and not pass out.
The great wall marked the northernmost boundary of the Western Reaches; beyond it lay the Dire Fell. It had been here for as long as histories were spoken, thrust up by the Land itself to stop the evil of the Grim from ever passing into the woods of the Reaches. Eventually, the Wall had become the birthright of Tyrus’ people, the Dro, who kept vigil here.
“Castle Mryl,” Nee’lahn said softly, pointing to the west, toward where they were heading with the captain and guards.
Kral nodded, spotting the structure.
Limned in firelight, the granite castle was hard to miss, growing like a boil out of the Northwall and sprouting forth with ramparts, turrets, and towers, all formed of flowing black stone. The massive castle climbed the shield wall in countless granite terraces, merging so smoothly that it was hard to say where one started and the other ended. And in truth, there was no distinction. Castle Mryl was a part of the wall, a flowing construct grown by the Land to house the wall’s chosen, the Dro.
Kral craned his neck up. Beyond the reach of the camp’s firelight, tiny windows glowed like stars against a black firmament, openings into high rooms and chambers in the wall itself. Tales spoke of passages and secret chambers that ran the length of the wall’s thousand leagues, like the arteries and veins of a living being.
And in actuality, the wall was no dead rock. An ocean of elemental energies flowed through the stone. Even now, Kral heard the magick’s call, and if Kral allowed it, he could be lost in that song. It vibrated through him. In his arms, Tyrus stirred again, writhing and moaning. The prince, too, heard the call and struggled to answer it.
Kral held the man to his chest. These lands had always been rich in rock magicks. Like the Dro, Kral’s people had lived in these mountainous lands, becoming imbued and blood-tied to these magicks. And though centuries had passed since any of his clansmen had returned here, the magick had never left Kral’s people. It was one of the chief reasons the clans had remained in the mountains of the Teeth: to be forever close to the granite spirit of the Land.
Kral felt heat on his cheeks; his vision clouded. He could not stop the tears. For the barest moment, he remembered himself fully. The darkness receded from his blood. He stumbled to a stop, a cry on his lips. Horror at what he had done, at what he had become, flared sharply, cut him deeply. Then the dark energies surged again in his heart, feeding off the raw power flowing here. Doubt and guilt faded.
“Are you all right, mountain man?” Nee’lahn asked, dropping back beside him as they marched toward the castle.
Kral closed his eyes, touching the beast inside, reassuring himself that all was in order. “I’m fine.”
Nee’lahn looked little convinced, but she remained quiet. As a group, they were herded to the main gate of the castle. Broken gates lay open to the south. Along the walls overhead, mounted on iron spikes, were the heads of the castle’s previous wards. Bleached by the sun, scavenged by ravens and crows, the decapitated heads were little more than white bone. As Kral stared with his keen vision, he spotted more of the castle’s decorations. All the walls, terrace after terrace, were mounted by these trophies of the dead. Thousands upon thousands.
Kral turned away. The great cat inside him stirred, scenting the bloodshed and terror. Kral reined in the beast with a promise. One day, he would replace each skull with a d’warf’s.
Kral followed the others through the gate and across the stone courtyard, carrying the prince of the castle back into his home.
Across the yard stood the main keep. Its stone doors lay cracked and toppled. Scorch marks and pocked holes marred the polished surfaces of the yard, clear evidence of foul magicks and fierce fighting.
Captain Brytton halted before the stairs leading into the keep. He pointed to the side, to an open doorway with steps leading down into the ground. “Take the prisoners below. Lock them away.”
The lieutenant nodded and drew them away at sword point. The passage down into the castle’s dungeons was narrow, barely wide enough for Kral’s shoulders. As the mountain man bent and climbed down the stairs, the granite walls swallowed him up. Though he was being led to his imprisonment, Kral could not escape the sense of coming home. The magick in the stone swelled through him, reminding him of hearth and clan. Even Tyrus grew quieter in his arms, seeming to slip into true slumber rather than the endless nightmare that had consumed him.
The long stairs opened into a large guardroom. Five d’warves sat around a hewn pine table, scraps of a meal spread before them. Kral spotted a human leg bone, well gnawed. A part of him turned away in disgust, while deeper inside another part growled with hunger.
The lieutenant grumbled in his native tongue, and one of the d’warves stood and grabbed up a ring of keys. The group was led past a stout oaken door and into a long passage of barred cells. The passage reeked of excrement, urine, charred flesh, and blood.
Nee’lahn wrinkled her nose in distaste.
As they were led down the way, the occupants of the cells glanced up, eyes dull with defeat. In one cage, a bruised and battered man hung from chains on the walls. He had no legs, only burned stumps. One of the d’warves leading them laughed and nudged his companion, licking his lips. Kral pictured the leg bone on the dinner table and shuddered.
He and the others were led all the way to the end of the passage, to the largest cell. Its door was opened, and they were shoved inside. With a clang, the door slammed shut and was locked.
The lieutenant leaned close to the bars as Kral settled Tyrus to the straw-covered stone floor. “Do not think yourself safe, man of the mountains. I mean to taste your blood.”
Kral, his arms freed, lashed backward with a fist, leopard swift. The lieutenant failed to move fast enough. Bones crunched under Kral’s knuckles; hot blood spurted over his wrist.
The lieutenant cried out, falling back.
Kral slowly turned to face him. Without a word, he lifted his fist and licked the lieutenant’s blood from his wrist.
Regaining his feet, the lieutenant lunged at the bars, his nose a crooked ruin. “I’ll eat your heart, mountain man! Do you hear me?”
Kral licked his wrist again, then swung around, ignoring the man’s screeches. He found the others’ eyes on him. Mogweed’s mouth was hanging open.
The lieutenant was dragged away by his fellow guards.
“Was that wise, Kral?” Nee’lahn asked. “What does it gain to provoke them?”
He shrugged.
Further discussion was forestalled by a loud groan from the prince. Nee’lahn knelt beside him, taking his hand. The man’s other arm rose, his fing
ers brushing over his face like a blind man struggling to recognize a stranger. Another groan escaped his lips.
“Lord Tyrus,” Nee’lahn whispered.
Eyelids slowly pulled open. His pupils rolled for a few breaths, then settled on Nee’lahn. He reached to her face with his free hand and touched her cheek, as if firming in his mind that she was real and not another figment of fevered dreams. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a rasp.
“Hush,” Nee’lahn said.
Tyrus pushed up on his elbows, weak. Kral stooped and helped the prince sit up. “Do you know where you are?” he asked.
The prince nodded and rasped an answer. “Home.”
“You’ve been unconscious for almost three days,” Mogweed said, coming forward to join them.
Tyrus held a palm against his forehead. “I heard the Wall. It helped me find my way back.”
“Where were you?” Nee’lahn asked. “What happened?”
Tyrus closed his eyes and shuddered. “I . . . I don’t remember. All I recall is a shadow falling over me while I fought the d’warves. Its touch numbed the marrow of my bones. I felt my mind pulled from my body, leaving me unmoored and unable to find my way back.”
“It was the griffin,” Nee’lahn said. “I saw it. A monstrous statue made of shadows and fire. It attacked you.”
Tyrus slowly shook his head. “I don’t remember. I became lost in nightmares, surrounded by strange, twisted beasts, and fiery eyes burning into me.”
“Fiery eyes?” Kral mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. He remembered his own branding by the Black Heart. He sniffed at Tyrus. He sensed no corruption and was secretly relieved. The blood debt to the kings of Castle Mryl was ingrained in Kral like a vein of quartz in granite. Even darkfire could not burn away this bit of ancient obligation. He was glad to discover the prince untainted.
Wit'ch Gate (v5) Page 15