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

by Phil Tucker

  Toad found him by a fire, listening appreciatively to an old warrior's tale of how he had accidentally mated with a she-bear. The little kragh sidled up to him out of the darkness and whispered that the Women's Circle would have words with him.

  With a sigh, Tharok rolled his eyes. "Just what I needed. And where have you been, Toad? I've not seen sign of your ugly little face in days."

  Toad sketched a low bow, his grin uneasy. "Here and there and everywhere, Tharok. Telling all about your worthiness as our warlord, of course. Ha ha! Will you come? The women await."

  Gesturing for Toad to lead on, he followed the stunted kragh away from the tents and huts into the darkness beyond, scratching at his side and wondering if he would be able to get back in time for dinner.

  Toad pointed ahead to where a goat trail climbed the chasm wall. "They're waiting up there, warlord, in a small cave. Come, I will show you."

  Tharok nodded absent-mindedly and began to climb, reaching out for handholds as the path got steeper, until he crested a small rise and stepped out onto a ledge before a crack in the cliff. Toad melted back into the shadows and departed. The Women's Circle was sitting in a semi-circle. He saw Maur, Iskrolla, and a half-dozen others, and as one they turned to look up at him, their faces set like stone.

  "Good evening, wise women," said Tharok – and then his head exploded into blinding white light.

  With a cry he pitched forward, tumbling down to his knees, his head ringing. A second blow fell across his lower back, sending explosive pain through his kidneys. With a cry of rage he tried to rise to his feet, only to have them swept out from under him. He crashed hard to the rocky ground and went to push himself up again, but a great weight settled across the small of his back as somebody sat on him and set an ironwood staff across his throat.

  Gasping, eyes unfocused, he saw Maur rise and stalk toward him. She drew a curved blade from her belt. Choking, Tharok grabbed hold of the staff and tried to pull it down, but it was rammed higher and deeper into his throat.

  Maur took her blade and touched it to his neck. "I could take your life, Tharok," she said. "The Women's Circle can choose to take your life, and perhaps we should do so. But for tonight, we'll hold back our blade."

  A roar sounded from behind them, deep and reverberating, and then the weight that sat atop him was gone, falling off and to his side, and Tharok collapsed face-first into the dirt, breathing deep and beautiful gasps of air. A hand clenched him by the back of the neck and hauled him to his feet. Tharok caught his balance and turned to see Nok standing beside him, a great maul held in the other hand. Krilla was rising to her feet from where she had been knocked down, with murder in her eyes.

  "Think you can kill the warlord?" asked Nok, his voice low and raw and dangerous. "If so, you'll have to kill his clan mate too."

  Maur hissed, and the women all drew their curved blades. Krilla gained her feet and drew a blade as broad and long as her forearm.

  "Wait," rasped Tharok, putting his hand on Nok's shoulder. His head was pounding. "They were just warning me, Nok. It is their right. They are the Women's Circle. We are but males."

  Nok didn't move, so Tharok reached down to take up the ironwood staff. Maur stared at him with slitted eyes.

  "That said, it's good to see that this is how this Women's Circle acts," he said, thudding the staff against the palm of his other hand. "With veiled threats and blades."

  Maur straightened and lowered her dagger. "We meet you in kind, warlord. After your confrontation this morning with Nakrok, there is no way we can trust you further. We agreed to your summoning the Convocation, not your turning the Red River over to the Crokuk if you fail. You raise the stakes higher than our trust."

  Tharok sighed and shook his head. He had to get this right. He took the circlet from where he'd tied it to his belt and slipped it on. It probably would have warned him against coming up here, would have helped him avoid this ambush. He stiffened as his thoughts expanded, but the rush was briefer this time. He was getting used to the transitions.

  "Look," he said, reaching out to place his hand on Nok's maul and lower it to the ground. "You are upset. I'm acting wildly. You don't understand me. You see me making enemies. Now I'm summoning a Grand Convocation, which you think will result in the destruction of the Red River. I could tell you to trust me. Instead, I'll tell you exactly what I have planned. Then I promise that if you want to slit my throat, I won't stop you."

  The other wise women lowered their blades, except for Iskrolla, who spat on the ground. Maur nodded grudgingly.

  Tharok spoke calmly, almost tiredly, like one equal to another. "This is the situation. Together we have six hundred fighters with us. Our enemy the Tragon number in the thousands. We could probably capture a few clans before they came against us in numbers, and then it would be a big battle that would result in many deaths and our defeat. I don't want that.

  "Instead, what I want is to capture them all, kill all their leaders, and force them to join the Red River. To do that I need more kragh. To get more kragh, I have to get the highland tribes to follow me, and in so doing force the Crokuk to do the same. That's why I'm calling the Grand Convocation."

  "And why," asked Iskrolla, voice sour and dry, "do you think the other tribes will come, much less follow you?"

  "Because," said Tharok, staring into her narrowed eyes, "I am going to bring stone trolls to fight by our side."

  There was a stunned silence, and then Krilla laughed. Tharok turned to stare at her, but Maur cut in furiously, "What? And how will you do that?"

  "The human trader controls a stone troll by the name of Grax. I will talk to him tonight and wrest his secret from him. Then I will climb the crags to where the trolls live, and force them all to follow me. Word will get out. The highland kragh will hear that the warlord of the Red River has summoned a Grand Convocation with the Crokuk and some fifty stone trolls to fight for him. Word will get out about how Ogri gave me World Breaker, and the tribes will come."

  "You are gambling everything on that human telling you his secret," said Krilla.

  "And your surviving your attempt to recruit the stone trolls," said Maur.

  "I know," Tharok admitted. "But if I succeed, the tribes will flock to me. We'll gain some thousand highland warriors, which are worth three times their number in lowland kragh. We'll crush the Tragon, force them to join us, and then we will be some four or five thousand strong. With the stone trolls by our side, we'll be more than equal to the once mighty Hrakar. We will move to the east and capture them. By that point, Porloc will be facing an army of some eight thousand kragh, the same size as his own forces, the whole of the Orlokor. But we will be battle-hardened, with a force of highland kragh and stone trolls at the heart of our army and with thousands of lowland kragh fleshing out our numbers."

  Tharok looked from wise woman to wise woman. "This is what will happen. We will descend the Chasm Walk and come in to parlay. I'll demand World Breaker. He will refuse, and will try to kill me in an ambush. I'll fake my death. He'll think he's won and try to celebrate. While he is celebrating, my thousands will fall upon Gold, and the Orlokor will fall."

  His words rang out against the stone walls. Only Iskrolla nodded. "A good plan," she said.

  "You like it because it will get him killed," said Maur.

  "Like I said, a good plan."

  "It sounds mad when I lay it all out," said Tharok. "Which is why I've kept it close to my chest until now. But what would you have thought a week ago, if while I was bound and Wrok's slave, I had told you that I would soon be leading the Red River to war with five hundred Crokuk by my side? You would have called me mad then, too. But here I am. Here we are. I'll build the new kragh empire one step at a time, and if you walk with me, you'll see this madness become reality."

  "And then you attack the humans," said Maur.

  "Yes," said Tharok. "I have one of them in my hut right now. Shaya. She will tell me all I need to know about their empire. It's strengths and weak
nesses. I will use that knowledge to our advantage. We will hit them where they are weakest, and destroy them."

  Maur shook her head. "This is madness, but you speak with conviction. Odds are, you will be dead in a few days regardless. Your plan to win the trolls is pure folly. It makes your summoning the Grand Convocation seem like wisdom in comparison. You'll be dead soon. There is no need for the wise women to oppose you, or remove you from power."

  "You sound sad, Maur," said Tharok, grinning again. "Are you already envisioning how boring life will be without me?"

  Maur drew her blade in answer.

  Tharok laughed and raised his hands. "My apologies! Still, unless you have any more punishment to administer, I'll be getting down to the Walk. I need to see if Gregory has arrived. I've got secrets to wrest from his mind."

  Nok put up his maul, resting it on his shoulder. Maur nodded. Tharok grinned again, gave Krilla a mock bow, and then tossed her staff to her. She caught it, but no expression reached her face.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Iskra pulled her cloak tightly about her chin as the cruel wind blew in off Mythgræfen Lake. It scythed through the sparse trees that grew around the island, and moaned in the branches of the twisted oak that guarded the front gate. Shoulders hunched, she gazed out over the stark and beautiful panorama before her, and wondered at the fate that had cast her from the heights of Sige to this desolate shore.

  From where she stood, she could see Ser Wyland drilling the Hrethings below. The training had eased Ser Wyland's concerns, or perhaps more accurately helped him bury them. The inner courtyard was too irregular and ruptured to serve as a training ground, so he had taken the twenty men in his charge out to the grassy sward near the beach and there lined them up before him. Iskra alternated between wanting to laugh bitterly or applaud them from up on high; it was hard to watch how earnestly the mountain men trained, shoulder to shoulder, learning to interlock their shields and swing in a manner that complemented the others instead of their usual wild stampede into combat.

  Could Ser Wyland train the eighty or so men at their disposal before Ser Laur led his new forces into combat against them? They would not be able to benefit again from a surprise attack in the manner that had defeated Ser Laur's first sortie; this time the enemy would come ready, approaching with slow deliberation until they either forced an open battle or laid siege to the ruin in which she stood.

  The wind moaned as if in pain, and Iskra shuddered. Having spent most of her adult life in the impregnable Kyferin Castle had led her to develop a casual attitude toward sieges; the idea of weathering one on Mythgræfen Hold with its tumbling walls, broken portcullis and ruined towers struck a bolt of fear to her core. They'd not last long. There would be a series of pitched battles at key weak areas, and then a massacre within.

  No, that battle would be lost before they even fought it. Ser Wyland's drills were good for morale and of benefit in principal, but the Hrethings would never be able to turn the tide in a fight against Ser Laur's trained forces. Especially not if the Ascendant's Grace sent in more Virtues or his elite forces to bolster her brother-in-law.

  A bitter resentment settled over her at the thought of the Grace. How rank, how low, how base he was to turn against her. To upend the social order, to believe the word of an Ennoian upstart like Mertyn Laur over her own Sigean claim to the Kyferin lands. He should have at the very least heard her out, given her an audience in which to press her claim, make known her outrage over being so cruelly dealt with.

  But no; instead, she had been banished here to be quietly killed and removed from the great board on which the Empire's pieces were played. The bitter sensation coiled into a tight knot of determination. They would not find her so easy to remove. Already she had bloodied Mertyn's face by killing his son and the Virtue who had ridden with him. Those deaths would draw attention to her plight in time, would complicate Mertyn's narrative and soil his claim to power.

  Iskra leaned forward against the parapet, looking down at the men training below. Power was about stories. The tale you could sell to others, what you could make them believe. The men below were willing to train, to spend time away from their farms and families and ultimately risk death because they believed in her, placed stock in her noble birth and the claims that imbued her with. Just as Mertyn's men supported him, believed him to be a lord, higher than they and worth their every sacrifice.

  Iskra's mouth drew into a line. Mertyn had sold his story better than she had. He had made a clean and simple appeal to the Grace and his men, shown them how his tale would end with glory, and was believed. Whereas she had been struggling to assert herself within her own castle, had been fashioning her narrative, trying to sell to her people and the world that she was worthy of the power she wished to wield.

  Stories. Narratives. They were what led armies to war, what toppled empires, what raised one man and ground another under the heel of destiny.

  Footsteps echoed hollowly on the stairs behind her. She turned, expecting Brocuff perhaps come to summon her to dinner, but instead saw Ser Tiron emerge, hollow-eyed and gaunt. He was without his armor, wearing his quilted undercoat instead, and she could see dried blood at his side. He strode up to her, strong and commanding despite his exhaustion and pain, and bowed.

  "Ser Tiron?" She wanted to step up to him, place her hand on his arm, but his expression kept her rooted where she stood. "What has happened? How are you here?"

  "My Lady Kyferin." His voice was stiff, and she saw in his eyes a hardness that she couldn't understand. "We have discovered numerous Portals on the far side. Audsley has divined their secret and has control of them now. He can open them from the far side at his pleasure."

  Iskra raised a hand, trying to understand Tiron's words, their import. The very nature of the world shifted on this new fulcrum, the implications striking. "You mean - he knows how to open them at any time? Whether it be their lunar date or not?"

  "Precisely." Tiron's expression was flat, his voice without emotion. "The man is a veritable trove of ancient knowledge that allowed him to divine the secrets of the Sin Casters. He awaits us on the other side, and has agreed to open the Portal every hour until we are ready to pass through and then on to Agerastos."

  Iskra closed her eyes. Sweet, delirious triumph arose within her like the smoke from a censor. An important piece had just clicked into place, a vital element on which their plan depended. "Oh, the Ascendant bless Audsley's soul. We should leave at once."

  "As you command. I've left Bogusch and Temyl with Audsley to safeguard him. We'll need to select a few men to take with us to Agerastos itself."

  "Safeguard him? What is the peril? What of Meffrid? Where did the Gate take you?"

  Ser Tiron set his jaw. "It is a hard tale to credit, but the Portal took us to a forgotten place out of legend. Starkadr, the Sin Casters' stonecloud."

  Iskra wanted to laugh, to voice her denial at what he'd just said. "Surely not..." Her protest died on her lips. "You have visited Starkadr?"

  Ser Tiron nodded. "I can hardly credit it myself, but yes. I can tell you of our adventures there soon enough, but I have reason to believe it's not as abandoned as we first thought. Meffrid went missing the first night, and we could find no sign of him anywhere. It was an impossible disappearance, and thus I think we should have Bogusch and Temyl guard Audsley at all times."

  Iskra hugged herself tight. "Very well. Be that as it may, we have to use it in order to achieve our goals. Speak with Brocuff and ask him to assign us two more guards. I'll let Ser Wyland know that we are leaving. He'll remain in charge of the Hold in my absence."

  Ser Tiron gave a curt nod and turned to go, but on impulse Iskra reached out and took his arm. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. I'm glad you returned to me, ser, she wanted to say, but his expression was forbidding. "Do - do you have any problem with our allying with the Agerastians?"

  "No, my lady." His voice was cold and sure. "If you deemed it necessary I would walk through fire for
you. Was there anything else?"

  Confusion fluttered within Iskra's chest. "No, that was all," she said. What had happened? She took control of herself. "Do you need time to recover?"

  "No, my lady. I am ready to escort you to Agerastos at your convenience."

  "I see. Very well." She wanted to pierce his reserve, to force him to cast aside this new coldness, but couldn't find the words. Instead, they stood in silence, until with a sudden movement Tiron bowed again and turned to stride back down the stairs. Watching him go, Iskra felt her confusion deepen into hurt, which in turn provoked a wave of anger. This was utter foolishness, she berated herself. She had to remain utterly focused on the task at hand. Yet she was unable to tear her eyes away from his grim form, and watched him as he descended into the hold until he was gone from her sight.

  Forty-five minutes later, she entered into the rooms beneath the Hold. Ser Wyland and a company of guards had escorted her down, quite unnecessarily, and the small room was crowded with armed men. Ser Tiron was dressed in clean clothing, a light coat of mail laid over his shoulders and tied off at the sides. Washed and with his beard trimmed, he stood calmly to one side, features composed and without expression.

  The Lunar Gate stood still and dead. Iskra gazed upon it, knowing now where it led, and resisted the urge to make the sign of the Triangle. Instead, she turned to those gathered around her.

  "You all know to where I go, and what I hope to achieve. Ser Tiron and Magister Audsley have accomplished the impossible, and now we have a chance at an unlikely alliance, a hope to bring overwhelming forces of our own to bear against Ser Laur's imminent attack." She gazed around at the small crowd. Torches illuminated their hard and haggard faces and caused their eyes to gleam like wet stones. Did they believe in her? If so, how much?