by Phil Tucker
“There are indeed many of you, Porloc-krya,” he said.
“Yes, and by the Sky Mother, our numbers grow every day, every year. I myself now have more children and grandchildren than I can remember, and trust me, that is saying a lot.” He paused. “I can see it in your face, Tharok—I can sense your disgust. You are highland kragh. You don’t understand why we sit still, why we Orlokor don’t roam as your clans do. I saw the same expression on your father’s face when I told him of my plans to build a city. He thought I wanted to copy the humans, but no. There is an advantage to it.”
“I see the advantage,” said Tharok. “That much is clear. You establish yourself in a central location, and that allows you to begin to organize your power and lands. You begin to create a system to control your tribe as it grows. You gather wealth, you gather your males, and there is safety in numbers with the Tragon and Hrakar and others watching you for signs of weakness.”
Porloc glanced at Tharok out of the corner of his eye, his face neutral. Finally, he nodded. “Yes, indeed. The humans have much to teach us, I’ve always said. Look at the marvels they build, how they work with rock and stone. True, they have much longer lives in which to master such things. They write their strange language down on paper and preserve knowledge that way. They are able to do things that I don’t even understand, but that doesn’t mean we can’t learn, can’t grow.”
Porloc warmed to his topic. They were getting closer to Gold now, a mere ten minutes from passing between the first tents. “Look at our greatest source of income. Tolls! Who would have thought, ten years ago when your father and I took this land by sword, that I would hold it with such a strange practice. If somebody wants to cross the mountains, humans looking to trade with the Tragon, say, we demand coin or shaman stone. They pay; we let them pass. So simple! It is like shaking wealth from the trees. We don’t even need to fight any more – especially not after that disaster in the human land of Ennoia.”
“Disaster?” Tharok roused himself, suddenly interested.
“It is not worth speaking of,” said Porloc, waving a hand as if warding away a bad smell. “The human empire came as they do from Abythos and paid good shaman stone for the help of our clans in one of their conflicts. Yet they lied to us. They did not tell us we would be fighting against human shamans. They rained down spirit wrath upon our kragh, who naturally fled and were destroyed. Shameful. Even now their warlords and high priests are begging for us to return and fight for them. But we need not fight their shamans! We don’t need to work! Why die for humans in a far away land we shall never walk to, never conquer ourselves? All we need do is put some sixty kragh at the mouth of the pass and demand payment. And the wealth comes in. The humans grumble, but what can they do? They promised us riches if we destroyed the Hrakar, and did we not? Who today fears the grubby Hrakar? Not I. Not I and my great tribe in our city of Gold!”
The path leveled out, and together they rode into the city. The first few tents were mean raw hide assemblies that Tharok would have refused to house a goat in, but soon they were riding past greater huts, huts of such size that it would have taken bending fully grown trees down to create such space and architecture. Kragh by the dozens and then hundreds lined the path, pushing their heads out of hut entrances or simply filling in the spaces between houses or lining the path proper, staring at Tharok and then pointing at the blade at Porloc’s side. Kragh began to call out their warlord’s name, and Porloc raised his fist in a signal of victory. The warlord had returned.
Behind them the kragh horde fragmented, the hundreds of warriors that Porloc had gathered splintering and moving into Gold to find their families or to spend coin on food and drink. The Red River tribe were to camp just outside Gold and await Tharok there, though Maur and Golden Crow and a few select others were to come later that night to join the celebration at Porloc’s compound. Tharok sat tall, with his chin raised as they moved forward, followed only by Porloc’s own honor guard, some fifteen lowland kragh in metal armor that clinked and clanked as they walked.
Porloc chattered on, but Tharok barely heard him. Thoughts assailed him as he saw more of the city, strategies on how to take it if ever he should attack Gold, the benefits of siege, of fire, of using pestilence as a weapon. Conversely, he saw dozens of ways to improve the city, ranging from the benefits of paving the roads to establishing regular patrols by trusted clans to ensure peace and order. He wondered at the lowland mating rituals, at the authority of their women; for the first time he questioned why lowland kragh didn’t grow tusks or swell in size with stature, why their skin didn’t darken when they ate flesh. Theories presented themselves, and he tried to piece together a history from the fragmented tales he had heard as a child. How many centuries ago had the lowland kragh descended from the mountains and begun to change?
The thoughts came faster and faster, stimulated by all he saw. Tharok felt almost nauseated. It didn’t help that Gold stank. Offal and refuse filled the streets, and children ran and played without regard for the filth underfoot. They passed a large market in which vendors hawked and sold their wares, where the sizzle of meat on a spit competed with the stench of feces, and there Tharok saw his first humans manning a stall, their tall, skinny bodies seeming to be without muscle or mass, their delicate skin the color of pale wood. Three of them were selling weapons, metal swords and axes that gleamed as if newly polished in the sun, and a deep crowd was formed before them, kragh reaching out to try to grip the wares only to be admonished by the humans in crude kragh. One of the human men turned to watch them pass, his face bearded like a mountain goat’s, almost as tall as a highland kragh and dressed in rich robes of brown and umber. Tharok held his gaze, studying the man, and then they were past.
There was a slave gallery to their right, where a number of lowland kragh were being sold alongside three bedraggled humans. One of the humans was female, standing naked in the thin afternoon sun, and Tharok stared hard as they passed, marveling at how slender her legs were, how thin her forearms, how slight her body. She looked like a bird, so frail that were he to roll over her in the middle of the night he was sure he would snap every bone in her body beneath his weight. That was no woman; Maur was a woman. That human wouldn’t even be able to lift a pack, much less carry it all day through the mountains. Still, there was something to that smooth, sunburned skin, to the mass of white hair that looked like moonlight caught in a web.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a towering figure in irons. It was a highland kragh, chained up behind the humans, his skin impressively black, his physique powerful and ponderous. Tharok drew his mountain goat to a halt. Porloc stopped his own steed a few paces on, looking back at Tharok with impatience and surprise. This wasn’t the time to make inquiries about a slave. This wasn’t the time to show Porloc anything but decisiveness and solidarity. He couldn’t start questioning Gold’s practices within moments of arriving.
And yet, a deeper part of Tharok wanted to know that highland kragh’s tale, and flet disgusted at seeing him chained up like a common lowland kragh. So what if it was a poor decision to walk over there and demand answers? To free him, perhaps?
No, one single highland kragh was not important in the grand scheme of things. There were hundreds like him being sold and used across the land. Tharok’s true goals would lead to a revolution in this system of slavery. He couldn’t risk his current standing with Porloc by acting belligerent and demanding here in the square. He should put this highland kragh out of mind and move on.
“Is there a problem, Tharok?”
Porloc’s honor guard were milling around, uneasy and watching Tharok with suspicious gazes.
Tharok forced himself to shake his head. “No problem, my warlord. I was just admiring the size of this square. Very impressive.”
Porloc nodded and turned his horse to continue riding. A second later Tharok urged his mountain goat on as well. He wanted to glance back at the slave. He forced himself not to, but felt a rising sense of frustration wi
thin him that he couldn’t explain to himself.
Another market, more huts, and then finally they came to Porloc’s own hut, built of thick stone and painted black, two levels high and with a huge wall around it enclosing a compound. It was practically a fortress. Tharok stopped his mountain goat and stared, giving his mind a moment to adjust to the sight. It was all hard angles and rough stone, tanned hides falling to obscure the windows, guards standing at attention at the open gate.
“Welcome, Tharok of the Red River, to the Heart of Gold, my home.” Porloc studied him to gauge how impressed he was. “You will stay here as my guest. Tonight we feast, but for now I’ll give you time to yourself. I must meet with my clan and prepare for the next few weeks. Rest now. We will speak again soon.”
Porloc dismounted, allowed his horse to be taken away, and then headed off even as several other lowland kragh moved forward to talk to him.
Tharok sat on his mountain goat and considered the compound, the rough rock from which it was built, the various lowland kragh guarding it. It felt alien. Too human. He studied Porloc’s fat figure as he walked away, World Breaker strapped to his back, and plans revolved in his mind. He closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to expand and contract, interweaving in a manner he could barely comprehend even as they evolved. Everything was going according to plan, he thought.
But whose plan is it? Is this the circlet thinking, or is it me?
Tharok growled, reached up, and tore the circlet from his brow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Dusk was falling when they stumbled into Hrething, Ser Wyland and a completely recovered Ser Tiron hauling the horn along the ground behind them with two thick ropes. The demon had rotted away before their eyes, shrinking and diminishing until only a putrid mountain goat’s skeleton was left.
Kethe hadn’t spoken a word since awakening, and Asho couldn’t help but cast worried looks her way every few moments, although he received no acknowledgment in return. It was as if she were walking in a dream, her brow furrowed in thought, her eyes never lifting from the forest floor.
Mæva had excused herself, explaining that she wasn’t interested in being pilloried by the Hrethings. Despite Ser Wyland’s protestations of protection, she laughed, blew him a kiss, then disappeared back into the forest. Ser Wyland had blushed and muttered something ungracious beneath his breath.
Shadows were lengthening and the high peaks were catching the last of the setting sun’s rays, causing the ice that clung to the cliff faces to glimmer and glint with a crimson light. Down in the valley the wind had taken on a cruel chill, such that when they finally sighted the hunched and cluttered roofs of Hrething they all breathed a sigh of relief.
Two guards were posted on watch at the edge of town, and at the sight of their small band one raised a cry and ran back into the street, while the second jogged up the gradual slope to join them, slowing to a walk when he was ten paces away. It was Janderke, Asho saw, and his eyes were wide with wonder at the sight of their battered armor and the huge horn they were dragging behind them.
“Ser knights—” He stopped, unsure how to continue.
“We’re well,” said Ser Wyland with a weary smile. “And the demon is slain.” He stopped and straightened with a sigh. “Dead and rotting. How goes it below?”
“Well enough,” said Janderke, eyes locked on the horn. “Lady Kyferin is waiting in Gunnvaldr’s house, and everybody is tense. I think wagers were being made as to whether you’d return.”
Asho stepped forward. “And what did you bet, Janderke?”
“That you’d be returning victorious, of course!” He grinned. “You’ve made me a handful of copper. My thanks!”
“Well, earn it by putting your shoulder to this rope,” growled Ser Tiron. He’d been subdued since awakening, though he’d confirmed that he’d healed completely. “You’re half my age. You should do twice the work. Get over here.”
Together they finished the last descent. A crowd emerged from the streets to flood out onto the hillside. Hrethings and folk from Castle Kyferin all stood intermingled, and at the sight of them Ser Wyland stepped back, slid his hands under the twisted horn, and with a grunt hefted it high into the air. The evening light caught the wicked striations along its sinuous length and everybody let out a ragged cheer. Ser Tiron stepped up, Asho behind him, and, forming a line, they lowered the horn onto their shoulders. It was long enough to span the three of them. As one they marched down, Janderke and Kethe trailing them, and into the crowd. Men and women were grinning, bowing and cheering, and then the crowd opened and revealed Lady Kyferin, composed yet unable to hide and her pride and relief, hands laced together before her and her chin held high.
They dumped the horn down onto the rocky dirt, and Ser Wyland stepped forward and knelt. “We’ve slain the demon, my Lady. Its body has rotted away, leaving nothing but the bleached bones of a mountain goat.”
Again the crowd let out a cheer and Asho stepped forward to kneel. He felt hollow. How he’d dreamed of a moment like this, where he might be celebrated alongside other knights for performing a heroic deed. Yet now that it was happening, he felt like an imposter. It had been Kethe who had killed the demon. Kethe who had drawn it to the clearing. All he’d done was throw his blade to Tiron.
“I wish that I could say I never doubted your success,” said Lady Kyferin, her voice carrying, and the crowd felt silent. “But I feared for your lives. I worried that even the greatest four knights in the land might perish before such a terrible foe. I see now that I was foolish to do so.” She smiled, and Asho looked down. “Heroes of the land,” she called, her voice bright in the evening air. “You honor us with your valor! You bring safety to the land! Never were there truer knights!”
Again the crowd broke out into cheers, bold and celebratory. Asho looked back to where Kethe was kneeling. This moment was hers, but she was distant, gazing at her mother but seeming to look through her.
“Headman Gunnvaldr,” said Lady Kyferin, catching the crowd just as the cheers began to die down. “We have killed the demon that plagued your people and your land. Will you now help us as we have helped you?”
The old man stood straight, and for a moment Asho had a glimpse of the warrior he must have been in decades past. His son, Kolgrímr, was standing by his side, and both looked grave, proud, and fierce.
“It’s been years since something like this has prowled our woods,” said Gunnvaldr, his voice quiet. People grew silent and strained to hear. “We’d have lost many innocents and good men before we were able to bring it to ground. You have our thanks, the four of you. We’ll be singing songs of your deeds for years to come.”
Asho could almost hear Lady Kyferin’s thoughts: It’s not your song we want.
“But we made an agreement, and you’ve upheld your part in it, so the Hrethings will come to your aid. The Hold might be cursed and the high lands steeped in evil, but it’s clear that we’re no safer for being down here. We’ll do what we can to help you against those who are coming for your heads, and I’ll put the word out amongst the far farms so that good fighting men will gather to help in this struggle.” He looked up at his son, then back to Lady Kyferin. “Give us three days, and we’ll have a force assembled that should give any invading army pause.”
Lady Kyferin nodded, her expression grave. “You have my thanks, headman.”
“Now,” said Gunnvaldr, raising his voice at last. “It’s time we mark this moment with a feast! Kolgrímr, butcher one of the cows. Afildr, Leifi, broach two of the mead flasks from under my house. Rauðr, get the fire pit going in the square. Everyone! Tonight we gather to celebrate these men and women who have fought for us. Let’s show them our gratitude, and celebrate!”
Asho climbed to his feet. The crowd swirled past him, some even clapping him on the shoulder as they went. He saw Lady Kyferin step forward to speak with Kethe and then quickly draw her aside, her brow contracting in alarm.
Ser Wyland stepped up beside him, watching the
two women. “Her powers are a death sentence unless she can get help.”
Asho felt his insides knot up. Should he mention what he had felt? The voice that had spoken to him? His failure to seize the moment? “All the more reason to defeat Laur’s men.”
Ser Wyland rubbed at his jaw. “Even if we defeat this invading force, we still won’t be in the clear. Laur holds Kyferin Castle, and he won’t leave the Raven’s Gate unguarded. The other Lunar Gate is in the Talon, and they won’t open their gates to us just because we’ve killed their knights.”
Asho nodded. “I guess not. Though there’s that Gate Audsley found beneath the Hold.”
“True. But only the Ascendant knows where that leads.”
Asho nodded soberly. “How long do you think she has?”
“That’s a question better put to the Magister. He might know. But not too long, I fear.”
Asho watched as Lady Kyferin shepherded her daughter away. Kethe looked lost, her eyes still blank with shock. Anger rose within him. “There must be something we can do.”
Ser Wyland arched an eyebrow in surprise. “I hadn’t realized you cared so much about her wellbeing.”
Asho started. “I—what? I don’t, I mean—of course I want the best for her.”
Ser Wyland stroked his mustache. “Mm-hmm. I must have misread the coldness between you two.”
Asho felt his face burn. “She’s a great knight. She’s proven herself again and again in battle.”
“She has, indeed.”
“Right. So. Now that we’ve got the support of the Hrethings, we can work on defeating the invading force.”