by Phil Tucker
The massive kragh shrugged. "It's hard to tell. They're so delicate, humans. You think they're just tired, and then they fall over and can't get back up. I think she is alright. Her body may be weak, but she possesses a strong will. She didn't fall once. She sleeps."
Tharok nodded slowly. "You have much experience with humans." Nok remained silent, so Tharok said, "We'll speak more of this later. Go now."
Tharok walked back to the Red River's central fire, which was burning low, illuminating the faces of the four kragh he had asked to be present. Barok, the sword master. Maur, the representative of the wise women. A wiry kragh named Rabo, famed for tracking a wolf pack for five days across the mountains in his youth and killing them one by one for devouring his wife. An old and greatly respected warrior by the name of Kharsh who had fought alongside Tharok's father.
"The Crokuk come," he said, stepping into the light.
Kharsh was in the midst of saying something in heated tones to Barok. Maur was standing to one side, shaking her head, and Rabo was sitting on a log, his face neutral.
Tharok said, "Do you have anything to say to me, Kharsh?"
The old kragh, his face lined and seamed by age, thick scars across his face making a webbing of pale flesh, turned and stared at Tharok. His left eye was milky white, ruined by the fire that had been used by the Hrakar to torture him when he had fallen into their hands over eleven years ago.
"You are not our warlord," he said, facing Tharok full-on. "We know nothing of your plans. You don't trust us. You tell us nothing of what we are doing. For a week now we have followed you blindly, down into the Orlokor lands and now back up here to fight the Tragon. We meet to discuss with the Crokuk, but know less than they do. A warlord shares his plans. You lead us as if we were children, not trusting us with anything."
Tharok turned his gaze to Barok, who held it steadily, and then looked to Rabo, who gave a small shrug, showing that he didn't disagree with Kharsh. Maur continued to gaze out into the night.
"Understood, Kharsh," Tharok replied. "I meant no disrespect. Tonight I shall speak my mind plainly, and you will know everything that I intend."
Kharsh's scowl pulled at the stiff scar tissue on his face. "We shall see."
They all turned at the sound of approaching kragh, and soon Nok emerged from the gloom with five lowlanders behind him: Nakrok and his chieftains.
"Welcome, kragh of the Crokuk. We talk of war," said Tharok, moving forward to stand before the other warlord.
"War?" said Nakrok. "This is a farce. What is there to discuss? We find the Tragon where they hide and kill them. This meeting is a waste of time."
Tharok presented his back to the lowlander and moved away, looking at the ground in thought. The Crokuk remained grouped at the edge of the fire's light, refusing to validate the meeting by moving forward to join them.
"Find them and kill them," said Tharok. "I am young. I've not seen much war. Remind me how we do that, exactly."
Nakrok hissed. "I'll not play your games. We return to our camp."
"Leave this fire and you die," said Tharok, his voice so soft that Nakrok paused so as to catch his words.
Their meaning understood, Nakrok's ears flared up in alarm. "What are you talking about? Die? Who would kill us? You?"
"No," said Tharok, his face grave. "They would."
From the darkness emerged sixty highland kragh, armed for battle, swords drawn, moving sufficiently forward so that their general outline could be discerned. They ringed the fire some three deep, silent but for the sound of their breathing.
Nakrok's kragh drew their blades, but it was a pitiful gesture. Their warlord snarled and stared at Tharok. "You are mad. There are sixty of you. There are five hundred of us."
Tharok stepped forward. "Your five hundred are useless to you here. I don't want to kill you, but if you insist on walking away from this meeting, you are more useful to me dead. Now, make your choice. Listen or die."
The Crokuk warlord glared at the sixty highland kragh and then cast his own kragh a furious glance. "Sheath your weapons." Nakrok then stepped into the firelight and placed his hands on his hips. "Speak, then, highland scum. Explain to me why my ally threatens me with death. Explain how you expect to live after letting me return to my Crokuk."
Tharok ignored Kharsh's furious glare and focused only on the other warlord. "Answer my question, Nakrok. What is our traditional style of warfare?"
"The way we raid. We locate their camp. We descend upon it in greater numbers. Their kragh flee to avoid slaughter. We take what we like from their camp, and depart with their riches and any slaves we wish to take. This continues until we either tire or can no longer carry their goods. Simple enough even for you, highlander."
Tharok was breathing deeper now, his mouth opening as he stuck his tusks out aggressively. "And what does that accomplish?"
Nakrok laughed with disbelief. "Oh, this boggles the mind. To be sent into the mountains with such an ass – what does that accomplish? We gain their gold! We humiliate them! We ruin them!"
Tharok raised his hand and curled it into a fist. "Say I punch you in the face right now, and then let you go. What would you do?"
Nakrok took a step back. "I would gather my kragh and come slaughter you."
"And what if I ran away before you returned?"
"I would take your camp and burn it."
"And then if I came after you with greater numbers?"
Nakrok stopped, considering the highlander. "I would flee."
Tharok nodded. "You begin to understand, warlord of the Crokuk. There is no end to this cycle. One warlord steals from the other, never gaining the upper hand, never ending the war. We take from the Tragon now. They come and take from us. We return. They return and steal what we stole from them. This might make sense for one tribe raiding another for goods, but not for us. Not if we want glory. Not if we want change."
The Crokuk warlord stood still, speculation written on his face. "Then what?"
"We descend upon their camp. They get up and flee, expecting us to stop and take their women, their goods. We don't. We give chase, force them into a prepared ambush – more of our kragh waiting for them. We encircle them, and trap them all."
"And then what?" asked Nakrok, looking quickly at the other kragh: Barok, Kharsh, Rabo, all of whom were staring at Tharok with fierce interest. "We slaughter them? I underestimated your lust for blood."
Tharok laughed and shook his head. "Slaughter them? What would that gain us?"
Nakrok blinked. "You're not mad. You're just stupid. What would that gain us? We would defeat the Tragon, reduce their numbers till none could oppose us."
"The Tragon are what?"
"What do you mean?" The Crokuk was rapidly growing confused. "Why do you keep asking these stupid questions? They are our enemy!"
"No!" Tharok lunged forward and grabbed Nakrok by the front of his armor, raised him off the ground and shook him. His four kragh drew their weapons again and surged forward only to be checked by the rumbling growl that rolled forth from the gathered warriors who encircled them. "I'll ask you one more time, Crokuk! What are the Tragon?"
Nakrok pulled back from Tharok's face, turning away from his tusks. "What - what are they? Our enemies! No? The Tragon? They're kragh! Is that what you mean?"
Tharok dropped Nakrok to the ground, where the smaller kragh collapsed into a heap. "Yes," said Tharok, turning away, looking at each of his own kragh in turn. "They're kragh. Like us. A different tribe, but kragh. We think that war against them profits us, profits the Orlokor, but we're wrong. It profits only one group."
Nakrok pulled himself to his feet. He was truly bewildered now. "Who? The Hrakar?"
"Are you so stupid?" asked Maur. She passed Tharok and caressed his shoulder with one hand, her gaze boring into the Crokuk warlord's. "Do you still not understand? Do none of you?" None could match her gaze but Tharok. "Only one group benefits from the death of kragh, and that is the humans."
Sil
ence fell across them all. Nakrok stared at Maur as if bewitched, his brows raised, unaware for the first time of the blades that ringed him. He blinked, turned and looked at his men, and then shook his head, passing his hand before his eyes. "Are you saying that you don't wish to kill the Tragon? That... Then what? Why are we here? This is meant to be war!"
Tharok turned away from the smaller kragh and moved to sit on one of the logs. He allowed Nakrok's words to sink into the silence.
"We drive them from their camp. Into an ambush, where we surround them with greater numbers. They surrender to us. We move in and kill their leaders. Then we force the survivors to join the Orlokor."
Stunned silence greeted his words. Even Maur stared at him. He could feel Kharsh shaking his head behind his back. But he had eyes only for the Crokuk leader, who held his gaze as if mesmerized, unable to look away.
"Why," asked the smaller warlord, "would they agree to do that?"
"Simple," said Tharok. "I'll adopt one of their children into my own personal clan, so that they will be married into the Red River. That connection will allow our tribes to merge. And if they disagree, we will slaughter them all without mercy."
Nakrok shook his head and looked to the others, his gaze finally settling on Kharsh. "This is madness. This is complete madness. To make Tragon into Red River? To have them join the Orlokor? This has never been done!"
"It has been done," said Rabo, speaking for the first time. His voice was quiet and soothing, like a river passing over flat stones. "Ogri the Uniter drew all the tribes under his banner and made them one."
"But this fool is not Ogri the Uniter. He doesn't even carry World Breaker!"
"No," agreed Rabo. "He does not. But I don't think that will stop him."
"The question," said Tharok, rising smoothly to his feet, "is whether or not you will do as you're told. You are a proud warlord. You lead the Crokuk with cunning and respect. I requested your tribe because I had heard of how smart you are, how you are a capable thinker, how you are adaptable. So, Nakrok. You face your greatest test. Do you sense the tide of history turning against the old ways? Will you continue the endless cycle of kragh killing kragh, or will you help me turn our might against our true enemies, the humans?"
Nakrok licked his lips in thought, allowing his gaze to roam from Tharok to Maur, from Rabo to Barok, and finally to settle on Kharsh before turning back to the young warlord before him. "The humans are allies of the Orlokor. They trade with us. They pay our clans with shaman stone to fight for them. They helped us establish ourselves along the southern slopes. It was with their help that we destroyed the Hrakar. Why should the kragh go to war with them? They have great cities, large armies, dangerous weapons. Why should we turn on them? For the sake of a few mangy Tragon?"
"No," said Tharok. "Because they use us. They set us against each other. Human hands shape the current growing alliance between Tragon, the highland tribes and the Hrakar. Human shaman stone funds their war effort. Human smiths give them weapons. They prepare these kragh to come against the Orlokor and bring us down. Do you think they like how powerful the Orlokor have become? No! They used the Orlokor to smash the Hrakar ten years ago. Now they are doing the same to the Orlokor. History repeats itself. So, I ask you again, Crokuk. Will you act as the tool of the humans and kill your brothers, or will you unite with us, cease spilling kragh blood, and prepare to fight the true enemy?"
Nakrok rubbed his chin. "You have said much tonight. If you are truly cunning and wise, you will know that nothing I say while surrounded by your men can be trusted. Let me return to my camp and speak to my chieftains in private. We will give you an answer come morning."
Tharok stared deep into Nakrok's eyes. "Alright. Come morning, you either return to Porloc or you march with us deeper into the mountains. There will be no other choice."
"Agreed," said Nakrok. "Tomorrow, then."
And with that, he led his kragh through the ring of blades and disappeared into the night.
CHAPTER SIX
Audsley didn't know whether to feel terrified or elated. The dull and ever-present moan from the massive airshaft just beyond the platform played on his mind like the fingers of a demented bard on a lyre. Yet the prospect of exploring deeper into Starkadr, exposing its mysteries and learning its secrets, made him feel once more like the child he'd been when he'd first stepped into the Grand Library of Nous. This was what he lived for. This was his idea of adventure - no swords or screams or people being nasty to each other, but delving into history, learning truths that had been long suppressed, bringing to light ancient knowledge and being the first one to see wonders that had been lost from sight for centuries.
"Audsley. Audsley!"
The magister turned sharply to where Tiron was waiting, hands on his hips, glaring at him from the rear edge of the platform. "Um. Yes?"
"What are you doing? Communing with the blasted thing?"
Audsley looked down at the sword. He'd been trying to decipher the runes inscribed around its blade, but perhaps had let his imagination and excitement get away with him. Coughing and adopting a stern look, he leaned down once more and tried to understand the etched language. Aedelbert helpfully blew out another tongue of flame, and Audsley felt an intense pang of desire for his writing materials, his reference tomes, his study and the tools of his trade. All he had was his memory and intuition, and he feared it would not be enough.
"Sigean." He shook his head at Aedelbert. "My least favorite language. So formal and stiff! There is no flow, no sense of rhythm or logic to it." He sighed, and Aedelbert licked the back of his hand in sympathy. "I've not seen this dialect - if a dialect it is - before. Look here. There are no connective markings on the outside of the runes to indicate in which direction one should read it. One might as well have to pick a direction at random. And there is a crudeness here which is at odds with the sophistication of modern language."
"Audsley?"
The magister turned around sharply. "A moment, if you will, ser knight. I don't chide you when you're fighting and call from the sides for you to swing harder, do I?"
Tiron frowned but kept his peace, and Audsley turned back to the runes with a sense of petty satisfaction. "Now. Where were we?" He scratched his cheek and tried speaking some of the runes, but they caught in the back of his throat and he couldn't get the pronunciation correct. Was this a spell, an incantation meant to be read aloud? Or was it a guide, something meant to be internalized and then acted upon? Already he was regretting the ebullient outburst when he'd proclaimed their imminent flight as if it were a thing already accomplished.
Audsley restrained the urge to sigh. He might as well sit down. At least there wasn't anybody attacking them. They did have an entire month to figure this out, though, as Tiron had pointed out, they only had days before they died of thirst. Shaking his head, noting that none of the ancient tales of adventure that he'd enjoyed reading had ever mentioned such awkward particularities, Audsley took hold of the sword hilt so as to use it to settle his bulk on the platform.
As soon as his fingers wrapped around the hilt, he felt a thrum of power run down his arm, and in his mind's eye he heard a massive door slam open, its echoes crashing through hidden recesses of memory and dream. He was suddenly not alone within the confines of his skull, the privacy of his thoughts that he had always taken for granted suddenly shared by an other, the sense of a visitor crowding into his brain, vast and alien and curious and cruel.
Audsley screamed and yanked his hand away, toppling over onto his side as he did so. He heard curses from behind him as the others rushed forward, and Aedelbert leaped onto his chest, hissing and flapping his wings, searching the darkness around them for some sign of a foe.
"Magister!" Tiron gained his side and knelt, hand on Audsley's shoulder, sword extended toward the shaft. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
Audsley panted for breath. That presence was gone. His mind was his own sanctum once more, though he could never again call it inviolate. He star
ed at his hand. There was no sign on his palm of what had taken place. "The sword," he whispered. "When I touched it..."
"When you touched it what?" Tiron was staring down at him with sudden annoyance.
Does he think I screamed for no reason? Audsley straightened his glasses and sat up. "The sword. I felt something. Somebody. In my mind."
The other three guards were crowded in behind them, as much for the comfort of company as from a desire to see what was happening. "What does that mean?" Audsley heard Temyl whisper to Bogusch.
"Asho's blade flared to life when he touched it," said Tiron, lowering his sword. "It gave him speed and strength in battle. This seems a similar kind of sword. Perhaps it's responding to you in a similar manner."
"Perhaps," said Audsley. "But you held Asho's blade and felt nothing, correct?"
"Correct," said Tiron reluctantly.
Audsley inhaled and moved closer to the sword. It was dark and still and utterly inanimate. "What are you?" he whispered to it, and then, taking a deep breath, reached out and wrapped his fingers around the hilt once more.
Immediately he felt that presence enter his mind again, but this time he was prepared. He resisted it, seeking to confine it within a bubble of thought, to limit its access to the depths of his sense of self. The presence was powerful, however, and pushed back against him, probing at Audsley's thoughts, seeking a weakness to open a means to delve deeper. A memory bubbled up in his mind, a painful one from his childhood when he'd been spurned by Elthelia, mocked and jeered at by her friends to his burning shame. Audsley felt that old pain well up within him, and in that moment the presence slipped out of the confines in which Audsley had placed it and pushed deeper into his mind.
He immediately released the blade, and the presence disappeared.
Audsley stared at the sword. Where had that old memory come from? He'd not thought of Elthelia in years, the way she'd pitched her voice to mimic his own faltering tone...
"Why, the cunning..." He rose to his knees, suddenly excited. "It used my own memory to weaken my grasp on it. So that's how it wishes to play, is it? Very well, good ser! I know your game. Let us try this once more!"