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

by Phil Tucker

  "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?"

  "Because," said Tharok, pitching his words in his avalanche voice, that deep and booming call that allowed each and every of the seven hundred kragh gathered around them to hear. "I am going to call a Grand Convocation a week from now in the Shattered Temple by the Dragon's Tear. To challenge me before I can issue the call shows that you dare not face the support that will come to me."

  "What?" Nakrok clasped his head, as if he thought his skull would split from trying to understand Tharok's words. "You are mad! You? Call a Grand Convocation? Who are you to do such a thing?"

  Tharok grinned. "I am Tharok, son of Grakor, warlord of the Red River, and it is my right."

  "You are Tharok, one week warlord, who ran to Porloc the moment you had a gift for him to seek his protection! None will come!"

  "If they do not, then I shall step down and swear loyalty to you without question. The Red River will be yours. Which is why it is cowardice to challenge me now."

  "Cowardice? No, I do you a favor! I would save you from humiliation, but knowing this now, oh no, I will let you make the call. Summon everybody! See who comes! When you stand alone by Dragon's Tear, then and only then will I laugh at you and force you to your knees!"

  Nakrok's laughter pealed out as marched back toward his men. "We go to the Dragon's Tear! You have one week to prove to all that you are worthy of summoning them. Then I will crush you, absorb the Red River into the Crokuk without the loss of one Crokuk life, and move on to crush the Tragon. This is too sweet!"

  CHAPTER TEN

  Asho roused himself by slow degrees from deep slumber. His back was cold, but his inner core was luxuriously warm. He was holding on to something, a lithe and limber form, and holding tight made all the difference in battling the frigid air around him. He made a satisfied rumble in his chest and pressed his face forward into somebody's hair.

  He froze and opened his eyes.

  Auburn hair. He was holding Kethe, completely cupping her body with his own, her form scrunched up into a ball and pressed against his own for warmth.

  She suddenly went tense in his arms, and he realized she was awake as well. Fighting back a cry, he scrambled away from her as if he had been scalded, raking his hair from his face as she did the same, and in the blink of an eye they were crouched facing each other, their eyes wild, both of them babbling.

  "How dare you -"

  "I didn't -"

  "Take advantage -"

  "Have no idea how -"

  Mæva's laughter cut them both off, and they turned to glare at the witch.

  "You have no idea how hard it has been to wait for you both to awaken," she said. "Though it has made us late for today's travels, I had to see what would happen. And I was justly rewarded."

  Asho scowled and pulled his hair back into a ponytail, tying it off with a thong. Kethe was studiously avoiding his gaze, moving to roll up her bedding. "Well, I'm glad we amused you," he said to Mæva with as much dignity as he could muster.

  "One has to find one's amusements where one can," she replied, and insinuated herself past them. "I'll be awaiting you both on the trail. Don't take too long back here in the dark."

  "That woman is insufferable," muttered Kethe as she tightened her pack's straps.

  "You were defending her yesterday."

  "I was, but this kind of humor is infantile. I'm - I'm deeply disappointed by her."

  Asho wanted to laugh, but then Kethe's words came back to him. The cutting anger, the contempt. She might be willing to pretend nothing had happened, but he'd not forget her insults so quickly. He focused on his pack. He didn't want to remember how good it had felt to have Kethe's body pressed against his own. The wonderful blend of soft and hard, muscles and curve, the scent of her hair. He scrubbed at his face. "Just to be clear, I -"

  "Don't bother," she said, finishing with the last strap and taking up her blade. She finally looked at him, her gaze hard and flinty. "It was a cold night. There's nothing to explain, and it won't happen again."

  "Right," croaked Asho as she left the cave. He sighed and picked up his blade. "Right."

  They climbed in silence, and in truth there was soon no room for words. The climb grew ever steeper, and in late morning they finally left the last of the forest behind. Occasionally they had to traverse a wash of small stones that gave way easily underfoot. Mæva climbed the rocks and boulders with enviable ease, and soon Asho was panting and sweating under the bright sunlight. There was no trail to speak of, just Mæva's intuition that led them ever higher, along narrow ledges, up the center of deep cracks in the cliff faces, and far too rarely along small strips of grassy meadows cupped on gentle slopes beneath towering cliffs.

  They ate while walking, and by late afternoon had left even the last of the stunted bushes behind. The slopes were mostly bare rock now, and the peaks were visible all around them, no longer hidden in the clouds above.

  "We're making good time," said Mæva. "If we keep this up, we should reach Skarpheðinn by tomorrow." She set her pack down and sat on an oval boulder, long legs stretched out before her.

  Kethe considered Asho, expression strangely uncertain as if she wanted to talk to him, and then walked away pointedly to stand at an outcrop a good dozen yards away and gaze down into a gulch. Did she mean for him to follow?

  "Asho," said Mæva. "Have you given thought to my offer?"

  "I - yes." He set his pack down and rolled his shoulder. "But I'm not ready to agree just yet."

  "Wise of you. Only a fool accepts an offer without learning all of the conditions."

  "So there are conditions?" Asho stepped closer.

  Mæva's face was inscrutable, her eyes liquid and dark. "Of course. Or perhaps, more accurately, consequences."

  Asho's mouth was dry. "What are you saying?"

  "There is no way for you to defend yourself from the corrupting power of magic by yourself. I cannot teach you that level of self-sufficiency. What I can do, however, is pass my gift onto you."

  "And leave yourself without it?"

  Mæva nodded. "It has served me well, all these many years. But I grow tired. I now know enough that if I give up casting magic altogether, I could live a score of years in solitude." There was something inexpressibly weary in her tone, and a haggard bleakness has entered
her expression. "I have no more need or even desire for my power. It is yours. I would give it to you. Now, if you wished it. All you need do is ask."

  Asho shook his head sharply. "I'm not asking. I don't understand. What is this gift? It's what you learned up by the Black Gate?"

  "Think of it, Asho. The ability to wield your power - and you are more powerful, more gifted than I ever was - without suffering for it. Without pouring your corruption into Kethe." Mæva stepped off her rock and approached him, taking his hand, her grip tight. "Freedom. Power. Vitality. Yours. Take it. You will need it in your battles to come. This is your chance."

  Asho pulled his hand free. There was a wild, almost desperate gleam in her dark eyes that scared him, that made him step back. "No. Thank you. I - not yet."

  Mæva bit her lower lip and then forced a smile. "Of course. I only pressed because soon we may be running afoul of demons. It's of no matter." She reached down and scooped up Ashurina, who had been staring fixedly at him all this while. "Come. Let us continue. Kethe! We proceed."

  Asho picked up his pack. His pulse was racing. What had that been about? He wiped his hand on the side of his breeches. Had Mæva been pleading with him?

  Kethe strode up, ignoring him completely as she brushed past him to continue up the path. She fairly radiated disdain.

  On they went, till Asho's legs felt shaky and scorched, as if hot coals had been thumbed under the soles of his feet. He cut himself a walking stick, which he used to good advantage, and after an hour Kethe cut herself one as well.

  Climbing and bouldering filled up his mind and washed away his thoughts. He fell into an easy trance, always looking for the next handhold, the next ridge on which to place his foot, following Kethe's narrow form and allowing time to slip by. Occasionally he'd pause to turn, blowing hard, and gaze at the stunning vista that grew ever more expansive below them. He thought he could make out Mythgræfen Lake far below and over a lower range of mountains, but he wasn't sure. This high up, the sun hurt his eyes, and the far peaks were hidden in burnished clouds of gold that he knew the others didn't see, his Bythian eyes unable to handle the brightness.