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

by Phil Tucker

  Lord Laur stared, mouth agape. “Lady Kyferin. Ser Tiron? Ser Tiron? The man who nearly slew your daughter three years ago?”

  Lady Kyferin turned to him serenely. “The very same. I’ve forgiven him. Ascension preaches that we pardon our enemies, so that both they and ourselves may Ascend. I have seen fit to do so.”

  “I—but—as you will, my Lady,” said Lord Laur, schooling his features into a frown so as to hide his shock.

  “No,” whispered Kethe. “No no no.” She took a step back, then a second, then turned and ran back to the tents, fleet of foot in her light armor, clearly not caring for the curious stares that trailed after her.

  Asho glanced up at Lady Kyferin, doing his best not to gape, and saw pain and uncertainty flash across her face before she regained her poise once more.

  “Ser Asho of Kyferin Castle,” called Menczel, and as the trumpets sounded, Asho stepped up to receive his first honors. Despite everything, despite his scorn for these tournaments and all those who entered them, he felt his heart soar. The air was crisp, the pain in his shoulder remote, and for a moment he set aside all his doubts and misgivings and fought hard not to grin.

  Lady Kyferin smiled. “You do my House much honor with your victory, valiant knight. My blessings upon you and your sword.”

  Asho bowed his head and felt her sleeves brush his cheeks as she laid the sash upon his pauldrons. He straightened, inhaled till he felt his chest would burst, and then stepped back.

  “Ser Wyland, Black Wolf and Lord of the Autumn Fort.”

  The trumpets blared, and Asho couldn’t help but clap along with everyone else. The big knight made no attempt at dignity, but stepped forward with a wide smile on his face. He had to bow very low to receive the sash, and then he turned and extended his hand to where Lady Kethe had stood. He hesitated, realizing she was gone, and then recovered quickly to step back with a final wave.

  Menczel glanced at Lady Kyferin, saw her nod, and cried, “Lady Kethe, of House Kyferin and Kyferin Castle!”

  The trumpets cried their sweet song to the heavens, and despite her absence applause rang out. People cheered from both stands, and Asho stared after her, wishing he’d seen into which tent she’d escaped.

  Lady Kyferin held up a hand for silence, and when the crowd had finally quieted, she spoke clearly for all to hear. “My daughter has retired to her tent to deal with her wounds. She has not only brought great glory to our House, and honor to Lord Kyferin, but has shown us all what a strong woman can do. She has shown us that there are no limits, that we each may forge our own destiny, that within each of us lies the potential for greatness. I name her in truth a knight of House Kyferin, and look forward with great pride to bestowing upon her the winner’s sash.”

  The applause was mixed, with many people whispering amongst themselves. Lord Laur, Asho saw, did not look pleased.

  “Now,” said Lady Kyferin, “as is customary, the golden cup will be awarded to the greatest knight of this battle.” Silence fell. “As your host and Lady of Kyferin Castle, it is my right to award it to the knight who performed with the most bravery on the field, and who exemplified the knightly code of chivalry. As such, I call forth Ser Laur to receive this highest of accolades.”

  Asho gasped. He stared incredulously as Ser Laur stepped forth, smiling with what had to be false modesty. “What?” Asho looked up to Ser Wyland. “But why?”

  Ser Wyland was smiling and clapping, though his smile was just as false as Ser Laur’s. “Politics, Ser Asho. There is far more at play here than a mere tourney.”

  Asho frowned and turned back to where Ser Laur was kneeling before Lady Kyferin. She held aloft the golden cup, which gleamed as if with its own inner ruddy light. “Ser Laur, you performed admirably on horseback, lasting through all three jousts with great skill. You then fought beautifully in the melee, never receiving a serious blow, but better yet, when the odds were clearly too high for any mortal man to overcome, you displayed the grace and humility of a true knight, and surrendered with honor rather than ruin the moment with desperate defiance. For such chivalry, awesome skill at arms, and wisdom, it is my great pleasure to declare you the greatest knight of this tourney, and award you this blessed cup.”

  The crowd cheered, but the sound was muted in Asho’s ears. Ser Laur rose and took the cup, then raised it high overhead. His fellow knights and camp followers roared their approval, and Ser Laur shot Asho and Ser Wyland a look of sublime smugness before turning to walk toward his camp.

  “Well, we not only survived,” said Ser Wyland, turning to face Asho, “but we actually won. Come. The best part of any tournament is when you get to take off your armor.”

  Asho watched Ser Laur as he entered the crowd of his men, receiving their hails and approbation with a raised fist. “This isn’t over, is it? The danger we’re in?”

  Ser Wyland followed Asho’s gaze and then looked over to Lord Laur, who was escorting Lady Kyferin down from the stand. “Oh, no. Not by a long shot. The real danger is just beginning.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tharok groaned and turned his head. He was lying on hard-packed dirt, and pain was warring with weakness for his attention. He fluttered open his eyes and saw the sky above him, a pale morning sky of the kind of porcelain blue you only saw from the mid-slopes of the mountains. He felt as if his body were a great sheet of metal that a hundred apprentices had used for smithing practice. Dull fire smoldered in his shoulder and deep in his side, and just sitting up took almost all of his energy. A thick collar of metal was banded around his neck; with a growl he pulled at it, digging his fingers in beneath the iron and hauling to no avail. Ignoring his surroundings and the sound of voices, he turned and grabbed the heavy links of chain with both hands and hauled at them, trying with panic and fury to tear them apart, but they held firm, tying him to the bole of a great tree.

  Only after his vision threatened to blank out did he release the chains and slump over, turning to regard the camp. It was a women’s permanent camp, female kragh sitting before their huts, children screeching as they raced about, the smell of campfires close by. There was a calm air to it all, as if this were but another day and he was not chained up in the camp’s center like a slave.

  Tharok froze. Tried to think. The circlet was gone, the sword. Everything but his tunic and pants. The last he remembered, he had been hugging the wyvern, flying ever lower into the familiar valleys, vision blurring, growing double, the lance almost slipping from his hands. He had been trying desperately to direct the wyvern to where the women of the Grey Smoke tribe had last made camp.

  After that, there was nothing. He must have fallen from the wyvern’s back, close enough to be found and then brought to this camp. From the number of males he saw sitting around campfires and walking around, it had to be this tribe’s mating season. Four times a year the roving male packs would be drawn to their women’s camp to celebrate the passing of the season, renew the bonds of the tribe, and to compete for the chance to mate. But which tribe was this? From where he was sitting, he couldn’t see any banners or familiar faces.

  Tharok closed his eyes. It was hard to think, to string his thoughts together. Last night with the circlet on his brow it had been easy to figure out what should be done. One efficient step had followed another, their logic obvious. There had been no doubt in his mind, no hesitation. He had been able to gaze at the vast tapestry of being and understand its weft and weave. Now that was gone and he was left with his hunger, his pain, his rage. He wanted to trick somebody into coming close enough to him so that he could wrap the chain around their neck and choke them to death. It didn’t matter who. He wanted to roar and throw himself against the chain until it broke.

  He was a slave. All of last night’s victories and now this, sitting near-naked and collared and without a tribe to barter for his freedom or raid for forceful liberation.

  Footsteps approached. Tharok opened his eyes and saw that a small group had assembled before him. His heart sank at the s
ight of gray-haired Wrok, warlord of the Red River tribe and his father’s primary rival for power in the area. Wrok was old, nearing thirty summers, his once-large body wracked by age so that now he was but a shadow of his former self. His skin might have been as dark as any warlord’s, but his authority rested on the support of his three younger brothers. Together they buttressed his authority, keeping back contenders in a style that Tharok’s father had claimed was more lowlander than true kragh. But what he lacked in body he made up in mind, and his small black eyes glittered like the depths of the night sky.

  By his side was his brother Krol, in his prime, his black hair pulled back in a glossy ponytail braided with bones, his barrel chest and shoulders as large as Tharok’s. He was as powerful as a mountain goat and just as stupid, his skin a shade lighter than Wrok’s. Next to him were the one-armed weapons master, Barok, almost as old as Wrok, and Toad, the misshapen tale-teller of the tribe, his skin nearly as light as a Tragon’s, his curved spine and gash of a mouth reason enough for his name.

  But his gaze curved from these men and turned instead to the red-haired kragh woman who was standing to one side. Powerfully built, even for a kragh, she had her arms crossed over her broad bosom, forearms as thick as tree branches and heavily veined. She was wearing a great mantle about her shoulders, but her midriff and legs were uncovered, so that even in his state Tharok could admire the cut of her long muscles, their tone and strength. But it was her eyes, flat and evaluating, that gave him pause. She was Maur, the wise woman, the leader of the women’s circle and the heart of the Red River tribe. While Wrok would lead the males to war, he could do so only with the blessings of the wise woman and her council.

  “You’re finally awake,” said Wrok. “It took you long enough.”

  Tharok glared at him, and then saw that he had World Breaker strapped to his side. “Give that to me,” he said. “It’s mine.”

  “This?” asked Wrok, looking down at World Breaker in surprise. “Yours? Krol.”

  The huge kragh stepped forward, swift and sure, and before Tharok could do more than half-rise, he thundered a backhand across Tharok’s jaw, snapping his head to the side so that he fell heavily to the ground. Growling, Tharok surged back up, instinct making him whip his head to the side so as to dig his tusks into Krol’s thigh, only to receive a knee directly to the face.

  He blinked. He was on his back. Blood was hot on his face. With a groan that was only part growl, he rolled to his side and pushed himself back up. The others were still standing there. Good. He had only blacked out for a moment.

  “Where did you get this blade?” asked Barok, the swordsmaster, his voice quiet, intent.

  “None of your damn business,” he growled.

  Krol stepped forward once more, but Wrok stopped him with a wave of his hand. “We need him awake if he’s to tell us anything. Answer the weapons master, slave. Or we’ll get our answers through other means.”

  Tharok rose to his full height and pushed back his shoulders. None of them was wearing the circlet. That meant they’d not discovered its true value. Good. “I pulled it out of your mother’s ass,” he said, staring Wrok full in the eye. “Slowly. She doesn’t like it when I rush.”

  Toad brayed laughter, slapping his knees, and Krol’s face flushed dark. Not waiting for Wrok’s command, he surged forward and drew his hand back to smash in Tharok’s face—which was exactly what Tharok had known he’d do. Stupid Krol. With difficulty he ducked under the punch and drew the chain around the kragh’s body as he kicked his feet out from under him. He got the chain up and around Krol’s massive neck and turned to make his demands…

  Only to feel the point of a blade against the side of his neck. Tharok froze and turned to look up the length of naked steel at where Barok was standing. How Barok had moved fast enough to get behind him, he had no idea. He’d have sworn it was impossible, but there he stood, the weapons master’s eyes like pinpoints as he stared down at Tharok, his brow furrowed with focus.

  “Release him, you stinking pile of filth!” roared Wrok, and having no option, the cruel tip of the blade pushing into his neck, Tharok did so, unwinding the chain so that Krol jerked away, coughing and cursing.

  “Now, it looks like you need a lesson in your new station. Drop him, and then string him up.” Barok nodded, and before the chained kragh could move, brained him with a lightning blow with the pommel of his sword.

  Tharok fell. The last thing he saw was Maur’s flat, contemplative gaze.

  The world was rocking slowly back and forth. Tharok’s head felt swollen to twice its normal size, the skin taut over his cheeks and forehead, so tender he felt it might split open. Groaning, he opened his eyes and saw that the world was upside down. No, he was hanging from his feet. He was on the outskirts of the camp and his body was pasted with rotten fruit, which also lay about his head. He’d been used for sport, and with that realization he growled, unable to control his ever-ready rage. But he was too tired, in too much pain to hold on to his anger for long, and with a groan he allowed his head to drop and his eyes to close.

  Wrok had World Breaker. He would use it to his own ends, cement his leadership over the Red River tribe, and with his new power would draw other clans in the area to join his. Tharok’s father, Grakor, had been Wrok’s only true opposition. Grakor had led too many successful raids into the lowlands for Wrok, old and unable to fight, to contest. For years Wrok had watched and waited for his chance to exert his dominance. Tharok’s father had been powerful but feared. No one would help the sole survivor of the Gray Smoke tribe now that he was gone. Tharok was on his own.

  “Would it help if I stood on my own head?” Tharok opened his eyes to see Toad standing before him. “We could then at least pretend that the whole world had gone mad and only you and I stayed sane.”

  “What do you want, Toad?”

  “Me? What, more than a tale or two? You know my role, my obligations. I must keep them entertained or they’ll cast me off a cliff and save the food for someone worthier. So, come, have a heart. Tell me how you came upon the sword. Did you venture up to the Valley of the Dead, where Ogri is said to sleep?”

  “Go screw yourself, Toad, and tell Wrok where he can shove it too.”

  Toad frowned, pantomiming sadness. “Tharok, Tharok, your harsh words will get you killed. You’re already a slave, and I think your skin is already lightening. If you keep this up, Wrok will sell you to the Tragon, and they’ll either torture you to death or sell you to the humans. And what do you think they would do with such a mighty highland kragh? Hmm?”

  Tharok closed his eyes. He hadn’t expected to come this far. He was strung up, still badly hurt, without friend or ally. It was as grim, if not worse a situation than the one he had escaped from the night before. If only he had the circlet, he might be able to think of something. But as it was…

  “You want a tale?” He opened his eyes. “I’ll tell you how I got the sword, by my clan’s honor, if you do me one favor.”

  “What kind of favor is that, mighty Tharok?” asked Toad, sidling closer but carefully staying out of arm’s reach.

  “Bring me something. It was my family’s. It would give me comfort.”

  “Bring you something? A joke! You might as well ask that I free you and slit my own throat while I’m at it.”

  “Fine,” said Tharok, closing his eyes once more. “I’ll tell the tale to Maur. I’m sure she’d appreciate the knowledge.”

  “Maur?” Toad sounded outraged. “And throw a perfectly great tale away? She would butcher it in the telling. She’d ruin it all. No, no no no. Tell me, tell me. I’ll tell it so that you are a hero, and perhaps it will buy you some favor amongst the tribe. Tell me, Tharok, not that meddling wise woman.”

  Tharok opened one eye. “Bring me my trinket and I’ll tell all.”

  “Trinket. What trinket? What is it, then?”

  “What I was wearing when they found me.” Suddenly Tharok stiffened with fear. What if it had fallen off as he fe
ll? What if it was lost in the mountains somewhere? “Bring me the iron circle I was wearing on my head. It was my mother’s. Bring it to me and I’ll tell you everything.”

  Toad pursed his wide mouth, closed one eye and squinted at Tharok. “Metal circle. Well, you can’t do much with that. Can’t kill somebody with it. I suppose you could break it in two and jab someone with the point. Hmm. I’ll tell you what: I’ll go take a look, see if I can find it. If it seems harmless, I’ll bring it. Agreed?”

  Again Tharok bit his tongue. What if the damn Toad put it on? He was already too clever by half. Give him that clarity of thought and Tharok would have no chance. He almost told Toad to not wear it, almost ordered him to promise to not put it on his head, but some low cunning saved him. Ordering Toad to not wear it was as good a way as any to guarantee that he would. So, instead, he just closed his eyes and nodded. “Fine, but hurry. I’ve a mind to tell Maur if she passes by.”

  Toad hissed and ran away. Tharok watched him go, disappearing behind the first hut. He had no idea what the circlet might tell him to do, but it was better than waiting for Wrok and Krol to come back for more answers.

  Half an hour passed. Tharok blacked out several times, only to awaken with his head pounding with the worst headache he’d ever suffered. His tongue was swollen to the point where he couldn’t swallow, and it was only belatedly that he realized he couldn’t feel anything below his knees. He hung there, hands two feet from the ground, and wondered if he could climb the chain to the branch overhead. Looking up, he saw that it was some ten yards up to the branch. Right now he couldn’t even curl up to touch his feet.

  He heard the sound of footsteps, and he looked up, expecting Toad. Instead, he saw Maur approaching, her aunt Krilla behind her. Their red hair glinted like the embers of a dying fire, and their square jaws and flat eyes set his pulse to racing. These were the real leaders of the tribe, the wise women who saw through the mysteries and advised Wrok as to what the proper course of action should be.