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

by Phil Tucker

  “Porloc-krya,” said Tharok, drowning him out once more as he went down on one knee. “My thanks to you. You honor your bond to your blood brother. I would take the Crokuk clan with me, and bring you back Tragon heads. Does the honor of your own brother merit such an undertaking?”

  Porloc’s face darkened. “The Crokuk clan? That is a mighty clan, indeed.” Porloc hesitated and allowed his eyes to drift over the crowd. Everyone was staring at him: Kragh leaders, lesser warlords, the great and small of the Orlokor tribe, watching to see how he would respond. Porloc laughed stiffly. “Of course, Tharok. I was about to suggest that myself. Tomorrow, the Crokuk will march against the Tragon with the Red River by their side, and they will teach the Tragon a lesson that they will never forget!” The warlord seemed to warm to this now that the decision was made. “For none can hurt the Orlokor without retribution! They will know pain for having dared go against us. We shall crush them and kill them all!”

  Again the assembled crowd erupted into roars of approval. Tharok rose to his feet, smiled at Porloc, and bowed low once more. Porloc held his gaze for a moment, and then forced himself to smile, raising World Breaker into the air before turning to speak to one of his brothers by his side.

  Tharok moved back to where his tribemates were standing. Without looking at any of them, he sat down, took hold of his copper cup and raised it to Maur. “Satisfied?”

  Maur stared pensively at him, arms crossed over her chest. “The Crokuk clan.”

  “Indeed,” said Tharok, grinning at her. “That’s some five hundred warriors. We shall march tomorrow morning. I can’t wait to leave this filthy town.”

  “So soon?” asked Golden Crow, taking up his slab of pork once more.

  “Aye, shaman. We move tomorrow. There’s no time to waste.”

  Maur’s expression was complex, her eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Now I see. That’s why we came down from the highlands—so that we could gain Orlokor swords with which to fight the Tragon?”

  Tharok drank deeply of the wine, then set the cup aside. He had had enough alcohol for the night. Still, he couldn’t resist goading her. “Obviously.”

  Her expression darkened, but Barok leaned forward. “And World Breaker? Why give it to Porloc? That I still don’t understand.”

  Tharok gazed out over the crowd. The drums and alcohol and pride were causing more and more of the Orlokor to join the circle that was dancing around the fire. They leaped and fell to all fours, spun and threw their arms up high. In the light of the fire they were little more than silhouettes, shapes out of time, ancient and primal. He felt a shiver wash over him. For all that they were lowland and weak, they were kragh. Blood of his blood, if one went back far enough. And they would be his.

  “We were not strong enough to hold World Breaker,” said Tharok softly. “If not Porloc, then some other, larger tribe would have come for it. Then another, and another. We would have been destroyed within months.”

  The other Red River members thought this over. Finally Maur nodded. “Agreed. But by giving it to Porloc, you have set loose his ambitions. If he attacks the humans…”

  “Trust me, Maur. Things will not proceed as you imagine. I have a plan.”

  Maur snorted and shook her head. For the first time, though, she didn’t sound angry at him. “I can only hope.”

  Tharok leaned back against his cushion and turned his gaze to consider the kragh before him—perhaps a hundred of the leaders of the Orlokor, a hundred kragh who represented some ten thousand across the far sweep of the southern foothills, entrenched in deep valleys and hanging above the humans like a sword. Ten thousand Orlokor, of which he now had some five hundred.

  As the drums beat and the dancing around the fire became faster and more fevered, as flesh was torn from the flanks of the roasting swine and sparks drifted through the air from the tongues of flame that spiraled into the night above the bonfire, Tharok stared at Porloc. The Orlokor warlord sensed the highland kragh’s gaze upon him, and he turned and stared at Tharok over the crowd. Their eyes met, and for a long moment they simply held each other’s gazes. Then Tharok raised his copper cup, and Porloc did the same.

  e. The festivities were beginning outside, but he had no heart for them. His thoughts were filled with memories of his departed family, his dead clan, his destroyed Tribe. He thought of the Tragon, freely wandering the northern steppes without fear of retribution. That thought filled him with a slow-moving anger that he could do nothing about. He didn’t know how to injure the Tragon. The Red River tribe was but fifty fighting kragh. The answer, he knew, lay in the circlet—but he didn’t wish to put it on.

  He froze upon entering his room. The slave girl—he’d forgotten her. She was sitting in the corner, slender white arms wrapped around her shins, her forehead resting on her knees, shivering in a thin shift she’d found. Tharok stood looking at her for a moment, uncertain, and then moved to the bed, where he slowly removed his axe from his shoulder and set it against the wall, then took off his belt and laid it around the post. The girl seemed oblivious to him, so he stared at her, examining her fine, pale hair, the hollows between her shoulders and neck, the delicate, bird-like fragility of her bones.

  “Human,” he said. The slave started, raised her head, then scrabbled to her feet, almost climbing the wall. She stared around herself as if she was blind, and Tharok realized that she couldn’t see in the dim light. “Girl,” he said. “Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She was breathing quickly now, small, shallow breaths through her mouth. Her palms were pressed against the wall, and she was staring in his direction. Suddenly impatient, Tharok moved to the door, opened it, and strode down the hall till he came to the closest lit candle. He took it, returned, and entered the room, casting everything in warm tones of umber and gold. The girl stared at him, put her hands to her mouth, then shook her head and sank back down into a crouch.

  Tharok set the candle on the floor in the middle of the room and retreated to the far wall, where he too sat and crossed his legs. She was like a panicked young mountain goat, liable to leap off the edge of the cliff in its attempt to escape. He sat still, and saw that by slow degrees she calmed down, or at least returned from the edge of panic. Her skin was burned by the sun, deep red and blistered along her shoulders, cheek and nose. Her lips were flaking. She had stood for too long in the marketplace.

  “Do you understand me?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered, her voice strange, reedy and thin, her kragh crude but clear.

  “You are mine now. I bought you.” He tried to not make his voice cruel, to simply explain the situation, but tears brimmed from her eyes and overflowed down her cheeks. She bit her lower lip and lowered her head. For some reason her weakness made him angry.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “If I were to set you free, what would you do?”

  “I would… I would head south, to Abythos.”

  “Do you have money?” he asked, and she shook her head. “A horse, then, to carry you?” Again, she shook her head. “You are so weak you can barely stand. How would you move so far south and not be caught again by Orlokor slavers?”

  “I wasn’t caught,” she said, her chin rising and her tone growing defiant. So there was some strength to her. “I was given. And I would find a way.” Tears glimmered in her eyes, but her mouth was set.

  “You have nobody to speak for you. Porloc does not grant you safe passage.”

  “You could speak for me. Speak to him. Ask him to give me safe passage.”

  Tharok mulled that over. “No. He would think you important to me and keep you to use against me. It would go worse for you.”

  “Then what? I am to be your slave.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps I will free you regardless. But you lack strength. Are all humans so weak?”

  “No,” said the human, and she looked away. “Some are strong. Or, at least, they appear to be so. Now I am no longer sure.”

  “You c
ould stay with my tribe for now if you wish. It won’t be easy, but you will be protected. You can tell me of humans, and in exchange we will feed you and help you regain your strength. Then, later, you can choose to leave when there is a better chance of your not being caught.”

  “Are you giving me a choice?”

  Tharok yawned, and the girl flinched at the sight of his tusks. He stood up, his knees popping, and with a wince he reached up to unshoulder his heavy hide shirt. He would be wearing finery for tonight’s feast. Finery by highland kragh standards, at any rate. “You can do what you like. Come with my tribe or try your own luck escaping Gold and making your way south alone. Highland kragh do not own slaves. That is a lowland kragh tradition.” He reached down and dropped his pants, stepped out of them and kicked them to the side. She quickly averted her eyes, and Tharok looked down at himself, then at her. Was she in her mating season? Did humans have mating seasons? Was she a grown woman? He thought she was, but who knew with humans?

  He shrugged and moved to the bed, picked up the heavy goat- and sheepskin cloak, the leather vest and pants. “I won’t have time in the morning to deal with you. Leave or stay; it’s all the same to me. But make your decision tonight. Come morning, if you are here, I will assume you intend to march with us. Understood?”

  She stood up, uncertain, and wrapped her arms around herself again. “Yes. What—what is your name?”

  “I am Tharok, son of Grakor, warlord of the Red River. My own clan was dispersed and killed.” He watched her as, slowly, she allowed herself to slide back down the stone wall till once again she was seated. “What is your name?”

  “Shaya,” she said. A name from a different language.

  “Shaya.” He grunted and began to dress, then took hold of a large sheepskin and tossed it onto the ground in front of her. She startled, but then carefully reached out, took hold of the fur and pulled it around herself.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Tharok didn’t respond. His mind had already turned to Porloc and the Tragon. There had been a plan, a means to his own advantage—but it was gone now. Irritated, he dressed quickly, picked up his axe, and left without giving her another glance.

  The feast was magnificent. Ten pigs had been slaughtered and spitted through the mouth over open flames, turned by Tragon slaves who were bent to the task by whip-wielding chefs. A central bonfire was burning in the center of the Heart of Gold’s great yard, and cushions were cast everywhere for the guests to sprawl on. Twelve musicians were playing on drums of varying sizes in the corner, from small pock drums to a single mighty peak drum that loomed over its player. Everywhere wine and whiskey was flowing, and the mightiest kragh of the Orlokor tribe were gathered, from Porloc’s clanmates to distant and subordinate warlords. It was a war council, a celebration, and a coronation all at once, and at its center stood Porloc, raised high on a wooden dais and surrounded by his family. World Breaker was prominently displayed.

  Tharok was sitting to one side, by the far wall, with Maur, Toad, Golden Crow and Barok sitting beside him. The freed slave had chosen the name Nok, after the dark son of Sister Death, and stood to one side, alert and brooding. They dined on steaming flesh and drank from copper cups until Maur could take it no longer and leaned over to Tharok.

  “Great and mighty and oh-so-wise warlord of the Red River tribe.” Her tone belied her words. “What by the Sky Mother are we doing here? What is your plan?”

  Tharok bit down on a leg of lamb and crunched right through to the marrow. It was delicious. He slurped and then waved the leg in annoyance. “Why must everything be planned?”

  Maur’s brow lowered. Golden Crow shuffled back in alarm. “Then why, I ask you, are we here? Why did you put World Breaker in Porloc’s hands? What benefit does this bring to the Red River Tribe?”

  Tharok could only shrug and take another great bite from the leg he was holding, enjoying the juices as they ran over his jaw. The circlet remained off his head, in a pouch affixed to his belt. Much remained a mystery to him without it, but he enjoyed being simply himself, eating and eyeing the women without thoughts of politics and maneuvering distracting him all the time. He’d tried eyeing Maura when she’d first arrived, but had quickly thought twice about it.

  Toad had carefully filled a bowl with garlic roasted goat tongue bits, and popped one into his mouth. “Tharok-krya’s plan is obvious. Look at where we sit! We are honored and protected. We are now tied closely to the Orlokor tribe, and as they rise, so shall we. Very wise!”

  Maura scowled and sat back, sipping from her cup of wine. “When Tharok spoke to the women’s council up in the peaks, he told us of a different dream. He spoke of uniting the tribes and breaking traditions. Of turning against the humans.” She glared at him over her cup. “What happened to those dreams, Tharok?”

  Tharok shrugged and tossed the bone over his shoulder. He remembered that conversation, but now it seemed both ridiculous and like too much work, a dream built of smoke. What was real was this ribcage carved from one of the spitted pigs, how the fat bubbled and the hide gave off a pleasing aroma. What was real was the fire, the music, the way the drums caused his heart to beat faster. Was Toad right? Was this enough? Was this what he wanted?

  Porloc rose, raised a hand, and the drums went silent. Kragh ceased dancing, so that only the great fire was moving and broke the silence.

  “Tonight, we have much to celebrate! We are the greatest kragh tribe in existence. Our wealth overflows, our city of Gold is a wonder, and I have at my call thousands of dangerous kragh warriors. We are feared! We are mighty! And this is all just the beginning, for now we move to even bigger and better glories. I have been given a sign by the mighty Ogri himself that the Orlokors’ fortunes are to rise to dizzying heights!”

  The crowd roared and kragh pounded their fists against the floor. The sound echoed hollowly in Tharok’s chest and he did not cheer.

  “There are those amongst you who share my concerns over the Tragon,” continued Porloc. “Those who think that the tides of fortune rise against us, but no longer! Fate has delivered into my hands this wondrous blade, this powerful weapon, this symbol of kragh unity. I show you World Breaker! This sword was wielded by Ogri himself! Think of that, my Orlokor. This is the sword that cut off the head of the great human shaman himself in their floating city of white stone. This is the edge that brought every kragh tribe to heel. This is the very blade that drank the blood of thousands, and now it is here, amongst us, in my hand. With it we shall conquer all, and become richer and more powerful than our dreams could ever have imagined!”

  Again the crowd roared, working itself up into a frenzy. Kragh fell to all fours and pounded the floor, and some even rose to beat at their chests. Tharok resisted the urge to spit. The lowlanders looked idiotic acting this way.

  Maur hissed and kicked Tharok. He frowned at her, jutting out his lower jaw so that his tusks emerged prominently, and then looked back to Porloc, who continued speaking.

  “Word shall soon spread of World Breaker being in my hands, and the other kragh shall flock to us. Once our numbers are truly great, we shall sweep up all the tribes and clans to the west, and then I shall lead a strike against the human city of Abythos like Ogri himself one did, deep in our ancient past. We shall take what we will from their city, and give those riches to our followers. Even more kragh will follow us then, when they see our success. Gold, women, metal—wonders all will we bring home. This dawn marks the beginning of our new era, and we shall accomplish it beneath the Orlokor banner!”

  Maur leaned in close, gripped him by the back of the neck with one iron hand, and hissed in his ear, “If you do not act now, I will do everything within my power to remove you as warlord and have you cast from the tribe, you miserable, drunken sack of piss!”

  Tharok shook her free and glowered. Porloc would never have dared strike against the humans without World Breaker. Tharok had set these events in motion, but now he had lost control. He could only dimly recall his
previous plans. His chance to act was slipping away, almost gone. His former plan was almost ruined.

  Porloc stood with his arms raised as if he was already celebrating his victory over the humans. His round face gleamed with leftover fat. World Breaker was raised aloft in his fist. Glory to Porloc! But something told Tharok that this planned raid would end badly for the kragh. Still, what was that to him? He could face down Maur… probably, and take the Red River tribe back to the peaks. Let Porloc dash himself against the human walls, then find a chance over the next few years to get revenge on the Tragon for his father’s death.

  Barok was staring at him. Maur had looked away in disgust.

  Tharok took out the circlet and turned it in his hands. Which future did he wish for? A glorious one, filled with revenge, unification, and conquest on a scale not seen since Ogri’s Ascension? Or a natural one, quieter, humbler, filled with his own pride and strength? He glanced sidelong at Maur. She would see him cast down. A yearning to earn her approval filled him. More than that—to conquer her, to capture her desire, to make her his mate, to be the kragh who could stand by such a female as an equal, to be the kragh she had glimpsed these past few days.

  Tharok took a deep breath. He’d already set events in motion. He would not back away now. He placed the circlet on his brow.

  “For now, I invite you all to eat and drink, to rut and to break bones as you will,” continued Porloc, and hundreds of brutish voices cheered and roared in approval. “For we—“

  “Porloc!” roared Tharok, stepping forward from the ranks of the kragh into the firelight to stare up at the warlord. He used his avalanche voice, deep-throated and powered by lungs more powerful than Porloc’s, drowning out all words so that silence fell over the crowd. Orlokor kragh turned to stare at him, brows lowering, hands going to their weapons. Porloc himself stood still, arms still raised, taken aback by the interruption.