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

by Phil Tucker

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Iskra accepted a mug of heated black tea from Jekil the undercook with a smile. The young boy blushed and quickly looked away, turning to the next in line with a slightly straighter back. Iskra moved away from the fire, holding the mug and enjoying the heat that radiated into her palms. It was a bitterly cold morning. Her people were moving lethargically, most of them wrapping their bedclothes around them as they stumbled around their small camp, talking quietly and avoiding eye contact. The mood was fragile. Nobody had slept well, and with the terror of last night’s rush gone, the direness of their situation was sinking in.

  What would Erland have done? She tried to imagine him here, either up glowering on the walls or brooding by the fire, nursing wine instead of beer and planning his revenge. Somehow she couldn’t picture him amongst this rubble. He wouldn’t have allowed Mertyn to back him into this corner. More likely Mertyn would never have dared to try such a coup. But against her he’d more than dared; he’d succeeded, and now she needed to salvage the situation with what little authority she still had.

  Ser Jander Wyland entered the hall, hair wet and rubbing his hands vigorously together. “I do not recommend going for a swim,” he said loudly with a grin, causing everyone to turn and stare at him. “That frigid black water does look inviting, I will concede, but I urge you to reconsider. If you value your chance of having children, stay clear!”

  Several people chuckled. Jekil lifted a mug. “Some hot tea, ser?”

  Jander strode over and clasped Jekil by the shoulder as he lifted the mug and drained it in one long pull. “Ah. Better than the finest Segian wine, if my Lady will pardon my saying so. Another cup, good Jekil! Our fortune rides on your tea-making services.”

  Jekil grinned widely and refilled the mug. Jander took it and stepped over to where Iskra was standing. “I’d ask how you slept, my Lady, but I fear I know the answer.”

  Iskra smiled. “How do you keep your spirits so high, Jander? Yours is the only smile I’ve seen since I awoke.”

  “How?” He turned to consider their small camp, mug held to his lips, his other hand on his hip. He stood straight and unbowed, smelling of lake water and looking rested and well. “This is life, my Lady. The wheel of fortune lifts us up and brings us down. You must free your happiness from its vagaries. Expect nothing, and everything is a gift.” He hesitated, shrugged, them looked sidelong at her with amusement in his eyes. “Or something like that. Perhaps I’m just an irrepressible optimist. Or exhilarated by near-death experiences in freezing lakes. It’s hard to tell.”

  Iskra’s smile turned into a soft laugh and she sipped her tea. It was bitter and strong, exactly what she needed. “Well, I thank the Ascendant that you’re with us.”

  Jander studied her and then spoke softly. “My Lady, I know the situation is dire. Your sense of responsibility for us must be crushing. Don’t let that weight paralyze you. Everyone here looks to you for strength and leadership, not only as their lady but as a Sigean, whose soul has ascended the highest of us all. You must lead. You did well last night, giving orders, setting people in motion. You must continue that today. Keep them busy. Nothing creates tension and fear like idleness.”

  She stared down into her tea as if its dark depths might provide her with answers. Two weeks—they had two weeks before Mertyn sent a force to destroy them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw people watching her. What could they accomplish in two weeks? Should they flee into the mountains and evade destruction? Live in the wilds like animals?

  Iskra took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. We need action. Purpose. Direction. I must admit to being overwhelmed, but there is no room for that.”

  Where to begin? She fought the impulse to ask Jander to lead. He’d been in dozens of battles, had led men to war. Already the people here looked up to him. It would be easy to hand over the reins of power. Would he take them? If she wished it, she knew he would. And he would do well.

  “Constable.” She pitched her voice to carry. Brocuff looked up from where he was sitting by the fire, sharpening a knife. “Summon all your guards. Every one. I would speak with them.”

  Brocuff nodded and rose, sliding his knife into his hip sheath. “As you will, my Lady.”

  “Magister Audsley.” She looked to where the plump Noussian was sitting almost hidden in the center of a massive knot of blankets and cloaks. “Bring me your map of the area.” Audsley blinked and nodded, then turned to dig into his satchel.

  “Ser Wyland. Find me Kethe, Ser Tiron, and Ser Asho. Bring them here.”

  Jander nodded smartly and strode away, handing his tea back to Jekil as he passed the undercook.

  Iskra looked at the remaining dozen men and women who were watching her from their places near the twin fires, faces open, expectant and hesitant both. “Where is Elon?”

  One of the grooms raised his hand. “He’s up on the wall, my Lady. Examining that ballista.”

  She nodded. “Good. Fetch him.”

  The groom nodded and almost ran from the room. Iskra cast about the room and saw one of the ancient Kyferin keep wheelbarrows close by. It would do.

  After five minutes, everyone was assembled. Kethe’s appearance tore at her heart—her daughter looked riven with grief, her face blotched and eyes crimson from weeping. Yet she stood resolutely at the back of the crowd, her face expressionless, staring coldly forward and ignoring everyone else. Ser Tiron in turn stood with his arms crossed, staring at the ground, clenching his jaw rhythmically and glowering. Something had happened. She’d find out what soon enough.

  Stepping up onto the barrow, she gazed down at their faces. She saw fear. Doubt. Exhaustion. Numbness and apathy. “We have two weeks before Lord Laur comes knocking at our front door. Two weeks in which to prepare ourselves, in which to prepare a reception that will send him and his men running back to the Talon. I will not lie to you; our situation is dire, but not impossibly so. There is room here for tough, determined men and women to shift the odds in our favor. You have committed yourselves to my cause, and I will now drive you hard. I will not give up on any of you, nor will I let you think our situation lost.”

  Ser Tiron looked up, face dark with scorn. “If you think we can fight off his knights, you’re lying to us and yourself both.”

  People stirred, looking back at him, then up to her for a rebuttal. “Agreed. Not in our present condition. But we will have accomplished much by the time they make their appearance. Magister Audsley.”

  Audsley came to attention.

  “What is the closest town to our location?”

  The Noussian raised his map and squinted at it. “That would be Hrething, my Lady. A good day’s walk down the Erenthil River from where we are.”

  “Hrething.” She nodded. “Therein lies our chance at salvation. They don’t know it yet, but the good men and women of that town are going to help us fight off this invading force.”

  “Why would they do that?” Ser Tiron’s face was as flat and hard as an anvil.

  “Because I’m going to persuade them,” said Iskra, voice cold. “I’m going to send a group down today to begin negotiations. We shall ask for food, supplies, and labor to shore up our defenses. But more importantly, we will convince them to fight for us. I have brought enough gold with me to make each of them wealthy. They will aid us. Ser Wyland, I want you, Ser Asho, and Lady Kethe to lead four guards down to Hrething today. I will expect you to report back by tomorrow night.”

  Jander nodded, and she saw approval in his face. It warmed her, but she did not let that show.

  “Master smith. What is your assessment of the ballista?”

  Elon rubbed at his jaw line with his thumb. “It’s in rough shape, obviously. The rope’s useless, and it’s hard to evaluate how much tension the bow arms will take. But if I work on it, I think I can get it to work once more.”

  “Good. Make that your sole focus. I want Lord Laur’s men to be greeted by six feet worth of ballista bolts when they ar
rive. Constable, today I want one man to watch the causeway and a second to walk the castle walls. You are to lead the other four in cleaning out this hall and sealing the gaps in the walls. Everyone is to assist you in this. Then you are to begin investigating how we may block the gatehouse entrance. If necessary, we will send work crews to the mainland to cut trees with which to build a gate. Is that clear?”

  Brocuff gave her a sharp nod and then turned to the crowd. “You heard Lady Kyferin! Ord, Janderke, Hannus, Haug, you’re with Ser Wyland. Matzke, you’re on watch up top. Ottel, walk perimeter. The rest of you, with me. Quickly, now!”

  Jander stepped up to help her down from the barrow. “That was nicely done.”

  She inclined her head. “You’re in charge of the expedition. I brought with me a small coffer of gold coins that you can use in your attempts at persuasion. Otherwise I will trust in your wisdom while dealing with these Hrethings.”

  “Of course. Don’t worry. If there’s any honorable way to convince them to help, I’ll find it.”

  Iskra looked at where Ser Tiron had lowered himself to stare into the fire. “If not, I’ll ask Ser Tiron to lead the second expedition.”

  “Hmm,” said Jander, following her gaze. “He’s not in a good place. Then again, how could he be?”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “He’s an Ennoian. I trusted the man he used to be with my life. Now? I’m wagering there’s some element of that man still left at his core.”

  Iskra inhaled and nodded. “Me too.”

  Jander turned to her. “Expectations will often help shape a man. I’ve seen green recruits fight fiercely beside veterans because their captain believed in them, and in so doing convinced them to believe in themselves as well.”

  “I don’t know if I believe in him.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I want to. But I don’t know.”

  “Don’t let him know that, then.” Jander turned away just as Ser Tiron looked up. He smiled. “Lead. Set the tone. The rest will follow.”

  “Good luck, Ser Wyland.” She smiled up at him. “I hope to see you back soon.”

  “You will.” He stepped back and bowed, then turned and strode away. “Ser Asho! Lady Kethe! Come! Let us prepare for our outing.”

  Iskra watched the three of them gather with Brocuff’s guards in the corner. Kethe avoided eye contact with her. Her daughter was holding herself stiffly, and looked as fragile as glass. Iskra felt a knot rise in her throat. Should she go to her? Press her to talk? No. The realization saddened her. Kethe needed to find her own path now, her own strength and self-respect. She was no longer just Iskra’s daughter; now she was striving to be a warrior, a knight. Iskra had to give her the room to do so.

  She took a deep breath and turned away. Ser Tiron was watching her, but he glanced away as if he’d been stung. Sensing the opportunity, she stepped up to him.

  “Ser Tiron.”

  He rose stiffly and bowed. Was there a touch of mockery to his movement? “My Lady. You didn’t give me a duty. I assume you either don’t trust me or think I merit a day sitting by the fire.”

  She smiled scornfully. “You should be so lucky, ser knight. No, you have an active duty that will fill the entirety of your day.”

  “Oh?” He raised a dark brow.

  “You are to be my personal guard.”

  He frowned, clearly taken aback. “Your what?”

  “My personal guard.” The idea had come suddenly to her, a wild idea, perilous, and shaped by Ser Wyland’s words. “This is a dangerous land. Magister Audsley has spoken of these naugrim, and who knows what else may lurk in the shadows? Something has cleared the Hold of all life numerous times in the past. I would have your blade by my side should danger still stalk these old halls.”

  He stared at her in bewilderment. “I don’t understand.” Clearly, anger lurked just below the surface, ready to rear its head. “You’re joking.”

  “I most certainly am not,” she said coldly. “I am Lady Kyferin. It is fitting—no, necessary that I have a guard, whether I wish to have one or not. The success or failure of this endeavor rests on my shoulders.”

  Ser Tiron nodded dubiously. “Why not Ser Wyland? I could lead that expedition for you.”

  “You are not fit to enter into negotiations with strangers,” she said. “Don’t mistake me. I know full well how much pain and grief and anger you still carry within you. I see it, but I also see the man who labors beneath those burdens. That man once impressed me more than you can know. It is that man whom I am asking to stand by my side. Now, will you accept this duty?”

  Ser Tiron stared at her with flat, dark eyes. “I told you: that man is dead.”

  Iskra met his gaze full-on. “I think you are wrong.”

  “Are you willing to wager your life on it?”

  She raised her chin. There was no warmth in his eyes. It was like staring into the face of a sculpture. If only she were certain, if only she knew without a doubt that he could be trusted—but she didn’t. Was this a terrible mistake?

  Heart thudding, she fought to keep her expression severe. “Yes, I believe your sword will keep me safe.”

  Ser Tiron smiled, a feral expression that didn’t touch his eyes. “Then I am your knight, my Lady Kyferin. Where you go, I shall follow, any my sword will always be at your back.”

  She nodded tightly. His words did not reassure her, but the die had been cast. “Come then. I would inspect the ballista.”

  She turned swiftly and strode out of the hall. She heard his heavy tread behind her, and fought the urge to run.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The village of Hrething was bleak. Topping the final rise, Asho gazed down upon the ragged buildings that were clustered below. The glittering waters of the Erenthil plunged in a series of precipitous drops to join with another stream and disappear amongst the slate tile roofs. A water wheel was turning slowly on the far side of town, and a watch tower rose to a precarious height, three massive trunks bound together near the apex so that their final spars spread out and supported a mean platform. A watch fire was burning brightly up there, its flames streaming fitfully as the evening wind gusted down the pass.

  “It’s not quite the village of Emmonds, is it?” Kethe stepped up next to him, her hauberk glittering like fish scales beneath a heavy, black-furred cloak. With her auburn hair braided and coiled into a utilitarian bun and her sword at her hip, she barely looked like the young lady he’d known before.

  “Not quite,” he replied. She’d returned to being cold and distant throughout the day’s march, keeping to herself and refusing to be drawn into conversation even by Ser Wyland. Old instincts bade him to walk on and not invite abuse. He chose to ignore them. “The odds of their having honeyed clover buns aren’t favorable, I fear.”

  She smiled thinly and placed one foot on a sharp-edged rock, leaning forward, forearms on her knee. “Humor. I didn’t think you had it in you, Ser Asho.”

  Asho turned and looked up the escarpment to where Ser Wyland and the guards were still making their way down. Even with his injured arm, he had proven more nimble then they. “You’re being generous. That was a pretty poor joke.”

  “Still, not bad for a beginner. You’ve not had much cause for jests, have you?”

  It wasn’t a question. She was gazing at him solemnly, and he had the surreal sensation that she was truly seeing him for the first time.

  “No. Not really.”

  He felt awkward. Ser Wyland would play the moment off with his habitual charisma, knowing exactly what to say to set Kethe at ease. He knew he should say something, anything, but all he could do was cross his arms and stare down at Hrething. He felt Kethe’s gaze linger on him, and her scrutiny made him even more uncomfortable.

  “Do you hate me, Ser Asho?”

  He glanced over at her in surprise. Her color had risen, but she stood firm. “Hate you?” He stopped to consider the question. “No.”

  “You don’t?” She seemed surprised. “Wh
y not?”

  “Why should I?”

  Kethe swallowed and checked Ser Wyland’s descent. “Because I’ve been cruel to you all these years. Because I’m Lord Kyferin’s daughter. Because I’ve seen you as nothing more than an upstart Bythian slave since you first sat at our dining table.”

  Asho’s head rocked back; he felt as if he’d taken a blow. “Do you still think that?”

  “No.” She looked away quickly. “Not any more.”

  His heart was beating quickly. It was rare for somebody to so openly discuss their disdain for him. “Why not?”

  “Why not?” She spoke softly, staring down the scree to Hrething. “A lot has changed since my father died.”

  That was true, but it wasn’t a complete answer. Her eyes narrowed, then relaxed. Her lips pursed, then parted as if she intended to speak only to close again. It was like watching the surface of a stream, flowing and fluid, mercurial and wild. He saw her then, the same slender girl he’d grown up with, if from a distance, for all her armor and coiled bun; saw the raw emotion she’d been concealing all day as adroitly as he had his whole life. She was barely holding herself together.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never had the chance to tell you in person. But I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “You are?” She laughed bitterly. “You must be the only one. Everyone else is falling over themselves to tell me what a monster my father was.”

  Asho hesitated. Good manners would have him hold his tongue. A keening wind whipped down the escarpment, bringing with it faint curses from the guards and the sound of rattling stones. “I’m sorry for your loss. For the pain you feel. Not for Lord Kyferin’s death.”

  Kethe nodded woodenly. “There you go. Very well. I suppose this is where you tell me all your personal grievances against my father.”

  He checked his sudden anger. Was that how he looked to Ser Wyland, so caught up in his own grief and sense of victimhood? He felt a cruel desire to hurt her, to force her to acknowledge anyone else’s pain but her own, but he bit it down. “No. I won’t waste your time.”