The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1)

by Phil Tucker

  With a cry he roused himself, shook off the cold, and gazed about at the snow. If Jaermungdr lay here, then so did the Uniter. Clumsily he began to cast about, moving in circles about Jaermungdr’s body, weaving drunkenly beneath the cruel stars. He had begun to despair when he tripped and fell, hands plunging into the snow as he toppled and then lay still.

  It was hard to breathe, to get enough air into his lungs. He felt a terrible comfort, a languor that was more delicious then red flesh, more enticing than the open thighs of a female or the deepest softness of a bed of furs. He lay still and knew that he was sinking at long last, the vital fire that burned within him finally guttering. With a great effort of will he turned onto his back and looked up at the stars. He would never join them, had not done anything sufficient to merit such an honor, but lying here was honor enough. To have found Jaermungdr, to have been permitted entry to the Valley of the Dead, to gaze upon these sights with living eyes—that was, he decided, honor enough.

  Reaching up, he brushed a flurry of snow from his eyes and then allowed his arm to collapse by his side. His forearm fell across a hard object, something sharp and unnatural in the snow. Dim curiosity pricked him. Turning his head, he gazed at the bank of snow into which his arm had fallen and dug deeper, probing with numb fingers until his hand closed around a shard of metal. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched it free and saw that it was a blade, a great scimitar made of black metal, broad and fell and strangely light. The crossguard was made of crimson metal, and the hilt was of black sable, frozen solid and twined with metal wire.

  Ogri’s blade.

  Tharok dropped it onto the snow so as to grasp it by the hilt. Strength rushed into him; heat caused his muscles and skin to prickle viciously enough that he gasped in pain. His heart surged, began to pound in his chest, and with a choking cry he sat up, the pain receding from his wounds, new energy surging into him. It was as if his body were dry tinder and the blade a living brand; its fire swept through him, dispelling the cold and gifting him with a new grasp on living. Knuckles white, he brought the blade before his face, then gazed down its length, marveling.

  It was Ogri’s blade, known as World Breaker, the blade that had led countless charges, that had severed thousands of heads, that had bathed in more blood than the valleys below had stream water. Despite its size it felt light in his hand, the metal of the blade appearing almost akin to obsidian, the edge so sharp that it seemed to disappear into the air and never quite end. Breathing deeply, Tharok blinked away the lethargy and began to sweep at the snowy bank with his right fist, his left arm still useless, reluctant to release the blade. He sent great flurries flying, and then, deeper down, found the great war leader himself.

  It was with great care and reverence that Tharok uncovered the body of the greatest kragh chieftain who had ever lived. For untold hundreds of years he had lain here, preserved in the cold, lying as if in state in his armor, a heavy lance fallen by his side, thickly plated black iron scales clothing his form with the same grace and strength as Jaermungdr. Ogri had been huge, and with a grunt of pleasure Tharok saw that he had indeed been a highland kragh: the same thick tusks, the breadth of shoulder, skin so dark it was almost black, not the bright green of fresh grass and weeds of their lowland cousins. Tharok had never seen a larger or darker kragh. A shiver of awe passed through him. Ogri had been beyond formidable. He must have been unstoppable.

  Around the dead chieftain’s brow lay a circlet of iron. Tharok tried to recall it from the legends, but could only remember tales of Ogri’s great golden crown, inset with black fire opals and gleaming with more light than all the constellations together. Perhaps the crown had fallen somewhere in the snow. Tharok considered searching for it but desisted; the strength that World Breaker imparted had him back on his feet, but the thought of scouring the snow and ice for a missing crown was more than his ravaged body could bear.

  What company to die in. He must have done something right during his fifteen years of life to merit such an ending. On impulse, Tharok reached down and took the iron circlet from Ogri’s weathered brow. It came off after a brief tug and he held it up to the starlight. A perfect circle, with no mark or seam to indicate how it had been forged. Common iron, without adornment, without rune or glyph. For a moment Tharok hesitated, and then, obeying the impulse of instinct, he slipped it onto his head.

  Time stopped. A key turned. He heard every voice and word that had ever been spoken to him all at once in a roar. Saw every scene from his life blur before his eyes, gone before he could grasp them. A deep pain split his skull as if an ax had been plunged into his mind, a gash as bright and awful as lightning. He screamed and released World Breaker, set his hands to his temples as he fought to keep his head from bursting, a thousand voices roaring in his mind, a thousand songs and faces, the peaks spinning about him. The stars were falling, the world was ending, and he passed out, fell into darkness and knew no more.

  When he awoke, the stars had returned to the great bowl of the sky above him. He lay in the web of pain that was his body, but felt detached from it, aloof to the aches and sobs and grinding agony that suffused his flesh and bones.

  For a long while he thought of nothing and simply gazed at the stars. He knew their names now, knew each and every one, names coming to him as he looked at them. The Falling Axe, the Troll, Ogri’s Foot, the Little Peak, the Dawn Stars. They were the same, but now he saw them with a new awareness, understood the interplay between their appearance and the seasons: that The Falling Ax would sink ever closer to the horizon until they disappeared, heralding the beginning of spring, while the Dawn Stars had once been known as the Stars of Deepest Dark, and ages before that, the Dusk Stars. He lay still, gazing up from the bed of snow and pain, and then took a deep breath and sat up.

  He didn’t have to die here. It wasn’t ordained. Only now did he realize that he could have whittled the lowland kraghs’ numbers down one by one with carefully placed ambushes and traps. Or, more easily, he could have challenged their one-eyed leader in direct combat, using words and phrases that would have forced his hand, such that the leadership of the group would have gone to the victor, invoking lowland customs that they would not have dared defy. He didn’t need to have killed them all, could even now be leading them if he had thought quicker in the moment.

  Still, had he done so, he would not be here now, with Ogri’s circlet on his brow and World Breaker at hand. He would not be sitting here, half-dead but for the mystic power that sustained him, aware of so much, suddenly seeing the connections and patterns between people, tribes, the world and nature that had never been evident to him before.

  Looking down, he studied Ogri. Had he too had to contend with so much awareness and rapidity of thought? Of course he had, and now his sudden rise to power, his meteoric ascension through the tribes, could be understood in a new light. Where had Ogri found this circlet, and who had he been before it?

  Reaching up, Tharok took hold of the iron ring and pulled it free. The universe went silent, his mind crashed into the mud, his thoughts slowed, the meaning of words vanished from him, and with a roar the darkness came rushing back in. What had he understood about the women’s councils? What was that truth he had glimpsed about the right of raiding? The names of all the stars fell from his eyes, and suddenly the Valley of the Dead seemed vast and final. Shivering, he placed the ring once more atop his head, and his mind opened up to the cosmos again.

  Tharok heaved himself to his feet and took stock. There would be time for reflection later, but for now time was of the essence. He had no food, was low on blood and strength, was far from the closest habitation, was no doubt already suffering from frostbite and hypothermia, and soon even World Breaker’s strength would be insufficient to keep him going. He would need first and foremost heat, then sustenance, then a means to move down the mountains, and finally a place to recover his strength. He forced himself to circle to where Ogri’s body lay, his reverence evaporating before his need, and located the dead chiefta
in’s pack. The canvas was frozen, but he tore it open and spilled out the contents into the snow. His own flint and steel had been lost on the second day, but Ogri’s would suffice. He then climbed up onto Jaermungdr’s foreleg and swept World Breaker back and forth, dislodging snow and ice until the blade thunked into the war saddle. Gritting his teeth, Tharok brought the legendary blade crashing down once, twice, and the third time the ancient saddle, frozen as hard as rock, splintered and smashed free of the straps that tied it to the dragon’s shoulders.

  Cursing his useless arm, Tharok gathered the planks of wood and canvas, all of it frozen solid, and tossed it down into a pile below. He then leaped down and nearly passed out from the effort. Only the steadily pulsing waves of heat from the blade kept him on his feet. Growling obstinately in his chest, he moved around to Jaermungdr’s head and gazed upon the ferocious visage, the wicked horns, the serrated brows, the great beaked mouth. Casting all piety to the wind, he took up World Breaker and smote as hard a blow as he could across the dragon’s snout. The wicked blade dug deep, far deeper than any other blade ever would, parting the ancient and frozen scales as if they were but wooden slats, shattering bone and carving a huge crack into the dragon’s face.

  Again and again he hewed at the dragon’s muzzle, until with a few final sweeps and several kicks he knocked the remnants of its mutilated head away and exposed the great tongue where it lay between the cruel fangs. He did not question how he knew, but reaching down he found the tongue still soft and spongy despite the cold, as long as his arm and deeply socketed within the dragon’s throat. It was grim, awful work, but after much hacking and levering, he pried the tongue free, and with it tossed over his shoulder he made his way back to the broken remnants of the saddle.

  There he knelt and coiled the tongue into a great fleshy snail shell, atop which he piled the remnants of the saddle, wood carved deep with scrollwork and sigils, the crimson leather now faded to the lightest of pinks and stiff with the cold. Shaking, losing the ability to move properly, he took the flint and steel and crouched down so that his face was practically in the pile and tried to strike a spark.

  He was forced to use his left arm, and the effort caused him to moan gently each time he struck the flint against the steel. His hands felt as if they were encased in huge gloves, there was no sensation in this fingers, and for having relinquished World Breaker he felt his energy leaving him faster. Gritting his jaw, curbing the impatience and anger within him, fighting the urge to simply rest his forehead on the ground and close his eyes, he struck once, twice, thrice, and finally the sparks leapt free.

  The tongue caught fire with an audible WHOOMP, blue and green flames exploding forth from the coiled mass, immediately thawing out the wood and setting it ablaze. Tharok pushed himself away from the sudden violent heat and took up World Breaker once more. For a moment he was tempted to enjoy the warmth, to banish the numbness, but there was no time. Rising, he turned to Jaermungdr and stepped to his side, up to the great bunching of the thigh, and with a cry of pain he brought World Breaker down in a massive overhead swing so that it sliced cleanly through scale and muscle and came out the other side, thunking into the snow. He raised the scimitar, aimed carefully, and brought it down once more, the black metal sliding through the frozen flesh with ease, making a cut that was parallel to the first. Then, by inserting the blade’s tip and working it around, he forced the wedge of flesh to crack, shiver free, and tumble to the ground.

  The wedge of flesh was triangular and deep purple, almost black, the skin and scales thick and crusted along one edge. Taking the flesh, he turned back to where the fire was burning bright and tall against the night sky and without ceremony cast the steak into the flames. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open, so he allowed himself a moment in front of the fire, standing close enough that it felt as if his skin would burn and blacken to cinders, allowing the dancing tongues of fire to caress and cook him as much as they did the dragon meat which was already beginning to sizzle.

  Then, with a cry, he tamed his desires and turned back to the Jaermungdr’s thigh, where he hewed another and then a third great slice of flesh, which he also cast into the fire. He gazed up at the night sky, turning his back to the fire so that he could see better in the darkness, and scoured the Five Peaks. No movement yet. Would they come?

  He moved with purpose back to Ogri’s body and drew forth the dagger from the sheath at his side. He held the blade before the firelight and then plunged it into the heart of the fire, sliding the metal deep into the tongue itself, which was already greatly diminished. The hilt began to char in the heat. Darting his hand in and seized the dagger. The metal had not heated enough to glow white, but a faint blush of rose could be detected along its outer edges. Hot enough. With a grunt he tore free the bandage that was wrapped across the wound on his arm. Blood began to pulse forth once more. Tharok clenched his jaw and laid the blade across the clean slice and pressed hard. He couldn’t help it; he threw back his head and roared, thick veins and tendons standing out in his neck. He pulled the knife free after a few seconds, not wishing it to stick to his flesh, and then adjusted his grip and pressed it again, and again, until the wound was thoroughly cauterized. Weak, he sank to the snow and plunged the knife once more into the fire. He waited another thirty seconds, then drew it forth and treated the deep gash in his side, biting down on his scream as he molded the wound shut, sealing it closed with his own burnt and smeared flesh.

  When he was finished, he flung the knife away and turned back to the fire with a gasp. His head was spinning, but he knew there was no time to waste. He had heat, he had cauterized the wounds, now he had to gain strength. He plunged the tip of World Breaker into the first steak and drew it forth. He dropped the blade, clasped the meat with one hand, and sank his fangs into it. The outside was blackened and charred, the center still frozen, but between those two layers the flesh had begun to sizzle and was cooked to perfection, so hot and salubrious that he found himself groaning with pleasure, choking down great raw chunks in his haste to eat. The meat was incredibly stringy, the taste appalling, but Tharok did not care. He wolfed down the entirety of the steak, even the outer charred edges, pausing to spit out chunks of scale, and then, with the heat of the cooked flesh warming his belly and new strength already flowing into his arms, he stood before the fire, absorbing as much heat as he could, rubbing at his muscles with the blade of his hand and sighting up into the night sky.

  It all came down to this. Either his conjectures would prove correct and he still had a fighting chance of leaving the Valley of Death, or he would stand here and freeze once the fire had died out. The flames crackled behind him, breaking the echoing silence of the Valley, and the twin steaks sizzled and spat as they cooked and burned over the dragon’s own tongue. His great body was a continuous laceration of pain, awakened now by the heat, that beguiling numbness gone, and he felt that a strong wind might knock him down. But with World Breaker in his hand he knew that he could stand, would stand, until long after the fire had burned to ashes.

  He turned, looking about in the darkness. He stabbed World Breaker through one and then the second steak, took up the lance with effort with his left hand, and backed away from the fire, toward the raw flank of the frozen dragon. There he stood still, listening for the sound of wings, trying to gauge their direction. The steaks hissed and sizzled before him, slowly sliding down the length of the black blade. The air above the flames suddenly manifested wings, the whip of a great tail, a hide dirt-brown and heavily armored, and then there was darkness once more. Tharok peered futilely into the darkness, trying to gauge its approach by where it blotted out the stars. It had to land, or else all was for naught.

  There was another flash of wings, heavy and awkward, and then with a crunch of flattened snow and broken ice the wyvern landed but ten paces from Jaermungdr, balancing on its heavy rear legs, wings fanning the fire so that the flames whipped and leaped and almost went out. It turned its great shovel head, eyes piss-ye
llow cruel and its great fanged mouth smacking open and closed as it tasted the night air, tasted the scent of cooking flesh. It was small, no true dragon this, perhaps a quarter of the size of Jaermungdr, without forelegs and ungainly in flight. But it was one of the most terrible predators of the mountain peaks, and Tharok had only ever seen them from afar, circling the higher cliffs as they hunted mountain goats and errant kragh. Here, now, brown and bronze scales gleaming and glinting in the blue and green fire, it was vast and primal and his only hope for survival.

  He set the lance against the dragon’s side and pulled free the first steak. It was hot and badly charred, but rich juices ran down his forearm even as he tossed it forward, aiming carefully so that it landed five yards from him, sinking out of sight as it fell into the snow bank. Then, without pausing, Tharok turned and scrabbled up the dragon’s flank, ignoring the pain thanks to the fire that raged in his blood, plunged World Breaker deep into Jaermungdr’s side so as to provide a handhold, and then hefted himself up onto the knee, and from there up the ridge onto its great armored back. Reaching down, he pulled free the sword, hauled up the lance, and turned to watch.

  The wyvern hopped forward, wings partially opened for balance, great splayed talons giving it purchase on the ice and snow. It darted its head forward once, twice, snapping its maw, the clack of teeth loud and startling. Around the fire it came, thick tail weaving from side to side, until it stood close enough to the hole in the snow to give one last wary glance up at Tharok before abandoning caution to plunge its head down after the meat.

  Tharok leaped. He turned as he jumped, arms and legs wide, so that he spun in the air and landed athwart the wyvern’s shoulders, crashing down on the dull bone horns that ran the length of its back, clamping tight as hard as he could, resisting the urge to plunge World Breaker into the wyvern’s hide for purchase, lance almost tearing free from his hand as the wyvern screeched its outrage and fury and began to sweep its wings back and forth with unstoppable power, spinning in place and leaping up into the air, almost gaining flight before crashing down again. It reached its head around to snap at him, fangs flashing close to his face, and blank whiteness surged before Tharok’s eyes, pain and fatigue almost causing him to black out, but he held on, gritted his teeth, legs wrapped around the wyvern’s great neck where it met the barrel chest, and then it was racing, running and leaping in its ungainly manner, till with a final surge and great pump of its wings it was aloft, shaking and heaving in its effort to dislodge him.