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

by Phil Tucker

  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."

  Nakrok turned from examining Tharok's kragh and really looked at the Red River warlord for the first time. "Of course," he said. "Which is why I'm here. Still, of all the clans, of all the chieftains, why did you have the nerve to pick mine?"

  "The Crokuk are famous for being good fighters," said Tharok, and as Nakrok went to bow his head in acknowledgement, he continued, "For lowland kragh, that is. Still, your numbers should make up for your lack of strength."

  Nakrok gave him a wolfish grin. "And I shall be happy to direct your brutes when it comes to strategy. You will be amazed, highlander, to learn that there is more to battle than screaming and running forward, throwing your feces at the enemy."

  Tharok laughed and stepped forward to grasp Nakrok's arm in a warrior's clasp. "At last I will be able to tell Toad that he can finally rest. Your tongue will keep us amused, if nothing else."

  Nakrok gripped his forearm. "Unlike some, we Crokuk don't lick the asses of those we wish to impress."

  Tharok paused, still gripping the smaller kragh's arm, and forced his smile to remain genial. "No, you skip the foreplay and go right to getting shafted. Hence your presence here this morning, no?"

  Nakrok's grin grew sharp, almost feral, and Tharok released his arm and looked at his gathered kragh. "Warriors of the Crokuk, welcome! The Red River Tribe is glad to have you with us in the battles to come. It will be good to have the strength and ferocity of the kragh who created the Orlokor Empire by our side."

  The hundreds of kragh stared at him impassively. Nakrok watching him with slitted eyes.

  "What's the matter, Nakrok?" asked Tharok. "Regretting obeying Porloc's orders?"

  Nakrok spat on the ground. "No. Enough talking. The sooner we march on the Tragon, the sooner this farce will be over."

  He returned to his mount, and Tharok turned and caught Barok's eye. The sword master shook his head in disapproval and walked away.

  It took but minutes for the preparations to be completed, and soon the Red River were ready to march. The entire time, Nakrok sat on his horse, watching, arms crossed and resting on the pommel of his saddle.

  "Was that wise?" asked Maur, stopping where Tharok was tightening the rawhide straps of his pack.

  "Antagonizing Nakrok? Yes."

  Maur raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

  "Until this moment, they thought us little more than brutish beasts. Now they resent us, and perhaps in time will learn to hate. Hate, properly manipulated, can turn into grudging respect. Then we will crush their leadership, and then they will join us."

  "You aim to take control of the Crokuk?"

  "Maur," said Tharok. He rose and heaved the pack onto his shoulder, shifting its weight about so that its load rested on his hips. "You have no idea how far I aim. We've yet to see if my reach exceeds my grasp, but we'll speak of that tonight at the war council."

  "War council? What war council?"

  Tharok grinned at her. "You didn't get the message?"

  Maur's brow darkened. "Play with me at your own peril, warlord."

  Tharok adjusted a strap. "Don't worry; nobody yet knows. I'm going to summon it at the last minute so as to not give anyone time to prepare."

  Maur shook her head slowly. "You are mad."

  "That," said Tharok, moving past her, "is quite possible. Time will tell."

  And with a final laugh, he marched on, through the waiting ranks of Red River to the road. There he turned to Nakrok and with a raised arm indicated that the great march north had begun.

  Nok, with Shaya still in tow, brought him his mountain goat. The human was wrapped in a massive goat fur, roughly cut to suit her frame, a belt cinching it tight about her narrow waist. Her pale hair was bound back in a tight braid, and her nervousness made her eyes appear overlarge.

  "Chief," said Nok, one hand on the goat's saddle, "do you intend to ride your beast?"

  "No," said Tharok. He felt the urge to exert himself, to stretch his legs. "Why?"

  "Shaya is still weak. She should ride for the first few days till she regains her strength."

  Tharok studied the massive kragh who had become his clan mate. He stared Nok in the eyes until the other looked away into the middle distance. "Very thoughtful of you. Fine. Keep her on the goat." He looked to Shaya. "I have made you part of my clan, human. Do you know what that means?"

  Shaya shook her head.

  "It means you are as close to me as kin. If anybody insults you, they insult me. For as long as you stay with my tribe. Am I clear?"

  Shaya's confusion was almost amusing. "Yes," she whispered. "Thank you."

  Tharok grunted. Something about her weakness angered him. "We will talk more when we camp tonight. I have many questions about you humans. Until then, don't fall off the goat."

  That said, he strode on, and as one the Red River fell in behind him.

  Tharok set a grueling pace up the Chasm Walk. The Red River managed to handle it without much difficulty, but the Crokuk were hard-pressed to keep up, their smaller legs forced into occasional bursts of jogging up the shallow gradient. All morning they ascended, until they passed the great Orlokor wall that ringed the mouth of the Walk proper. There they filed through the massive gates as the entire garrison turned out to watch, the two hundred Red River followed by the five hundred Crokuk, an army the likes of which had not entered the mountains in over a decade. Overhead, turkey vultures circled, wings frozen and outstretched in the sky, weaving eldritch patterns against the Sky Lord's realm.

  On and up and up and on they went, into the colder climes. Tharok refused to break for lunch, and as the Walk grew steeper he increased the pace, forging ever ahead, lowering his head so as to balance the great pack on his back. It had been some time since he had pushed himself hard, and he enjoyed the tightness in his chest, the burn in his thighs. His breath came deep and steady, and on he strode, eating up the miles, passing the checkpoints without pausing to answer the calls of the sentries, allowing the Crokuk to deal with the formalities.

  The sun dipped behind the higher peaks, and soon they were walking through cold blue shadow, the higher slopes still catching the sunlight and glowing roseate and rust-colored. They went higher yet, and before them lay the ice-clad peaks, gleaming and glittering like the world's most marvelous diamonds. The tree-covered slopes grew shadowed and still, and the walls of the valley grew ever closer until once more they were traveling along the base of the chasm, cliffs ascending steeply on both sides and covered in heavy brush.

  Finally, as the shadows began to darken from blue to black, Tharok stopped, turned, and raised his fist. The Red River were strung out before him in a long line, bunched in the center with the mountain goats, but beyond them there was no sight of the Crokuk. Tharok grunted, pleased. The lowlanders would probably catch up within half an hour if they hadn't swallowed their pride and stopped to make their own camp. There was plenty of time to prepare.

  His tribe swelled before him until they were all gathered, their great tusked faces staring at him, weary but still alive enough to be curious.

  "We make camp, here where the valley widens behind that line of trees," he told them. "Move fast. I want huts up and fires lit before the first lowlander rounds that bend. Move, move, move!"

  The Red River kragh stared at each other and then strode off the path, unslinging packs and reaching for the knots that bound loads to the goats' backs. Having lived their whole lives on the move, it took them little time to establish their sites, to pitch their huts, to begin gathering wood and setting it to burn in small piles.

  Tharok remained within the tree line, arms crossed, staring down the Chasm Walk. It was crucial that Nakrok not have decided to stop and make his own camp. It was crucial that the Crokuk still follow, that they have enough loyalty to Porloc and pride as lowland kragh to struggle after the Red River, bitter and angry and resentful.

  Tharok was beginning to fear th
e worst when Nakrok's horse finally rounded the curve, the clop of its hooves echoing off the stone cliffs moments before it emerged from the gloom. Tharok resisted the urge to grunt loudly, so profound and deep was his satisfaction. The Crokuk warlord pulled back on his reins when he saw the campfires, and Tharok turned to examine the sight that greeted the lowlander: huts were assembled, and already the Red River were hunkered about their fires, seeming at ease, making it impossible to gauge how long they had been at camp. Tharok nodded. Perfect.

  Behind the Crokuk warlord came his kragh. They were sore of foot, winded, their heads hanging, their weapons dragging. Gone was their pride and disdain. Now their hundreds arrived in dribs and drabs to stop behind their warlord, and Tharok could see his camp fires burning in their eyes as they stared in anger and resentment at the highlanders. Anger, resentment, fatigue, pain, all that and more, but no longer disdain. No longer that distant look of cold superiority. Good.

  Tharok headed back to his hut, noting that the Red River had filled the center of the clearing. Nakrok would have to encircle their camp, another subtle symbol of Tharok's superiority. The central fire in any kragh camp went to the most powerful, and the Crokuk could not help but notice that the Red River formed their camp's core.

  Time now to eat, to speak to his kragh. The war council tonight would be crucial for their long-term success. It was time to test how wise Nakrok was... or how bullheaded.

  An hour later, the dark heavens were smeared with stars, the brilliant constellations so thick and luminous after the reek and glow of Gold that it did Tharok good to simply stand, hand on hips, and gaze up at the heavens.

  Nok approached, a moving mound almost as large as a stone troll. "The kragh are prepared. Barok has drilled them."

  "Good. They must be ready to act the moment I give the signal, and act fast. Now, go to the Crokuk. Tell Nakrok that we gather to discuss the war with the Tragon, and his presence is requested."

  Nok bowed his head and turned to go. Tharok hesitated, almost held his tongue, then spoke. "How did the human, Shaya, fare today?"