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

by Phil Tucker

  “I would say a few words to honor your greatness before we fall into feasting proper and lose ourselves,” said Tharok, turning to the encircling crowd with spread arms, grinning at them so that his tusks hung low. “After all, tonight is a night to be remembered, and in the days to come, let it not be said that the mighty Orlokor began their revolution alone. The highland kragh stand with you, or shall as soon as this is done, and I would have it noted, that I, Tharok of the Red River, who did have the honor and the glory of bringing World Breaker to you, was the first!”

  His words hung in the air, and then several kragh cheered, the rest catching on as Porloc lowered his arms and nodded his head. “Yes, Tharok, this is true. We Orlokor are glad to have the Red River tribe by our side.” He opened his mouth to continue, but Tharok interrupted once more.

  “You honored me beyond all measure when you named me your blood son,” he roared, turning so that all could hear him clearly. Porloc made a sour face. “And I would earn your approval right away. As you fix your keen eyes on the western tribes and Abythos in the south, I would fix mine on the north—where the Tragon still gather and cause trouble. They killed my father—your blood brother—and stand unpunished. I would see my father avenged! The Red River tribe will march to war, and if this cause meets with your approval, I would request that you send kragh with me to swell my numbers and see to it that the Tragon are made to pay for killing a member of Porloc’s own family!”

  Tharok, who had been turning in order to address the whole crowd, finished this last facing Porloc, lowering his arms in the sudden silence. Porloc stared down at him, his frown etched deep into his face, and then he laughed. “But of course. Your father’s death has not been far from my mind. Tomorrow we will discuss how we can avenge him. Tonight, however—“

  “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.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Iskra bade her men bring their dead and wounded into Mythgræfen’s courtyard and assemble the captured enemy on the thin curvature of beach in front of the Hold. The dawn was cold and raw, the sun not yet having risen over the eastern peaks, and the colors of the land were muted and somber. Wrapped in her heavy white-furred cloak, she strode out through the ruined gatehouse, accompanied by Brocuff and Kolgrímr, and came to a stop on the bluff overlooking the sand on which the prisoners were kneeling.

  There were seventeen of them. None were bound, for they had given their word as Ennoian knights to conduct themselves honorably after surrendering their swords. They were kneeling, backs straight, faces alternately arrogant or drawn with pain, nervous or carefully expressionless. She recognized the Golden Viper twins, Ser Cunot and Ser Cunad. A pity they had not died, she thought.

  The wind whipped in off the scudding wavelets, and ravens croaked in the branches of the twisted oak.

  “You came here under the command of your Lord to kill me and mine.” Her words sounded thin in the morning chill. “Now the causeway and the lake shore are littered with your dead. Ser Kitan and the Virtue Makaria are no more. You have surrendered and acknowledged yourselves defeated.”

  She paused. She felt as hard and cold as the bare branches that the lake had washed up on the narrow crescent of a beach. None of the prisoners spoke; they were all waiting to hear her judgment. “It is customary for captured knights to be held for ransom. I shall not follow the custom, as I do not have the resources to house you or any interest in your gold.”

  The men stirred. None of them dared show fear, but she could read their doubts regardless. Only the promise of gold safeguarded a captured knight’s safety. The beach was ringed with Hrethings and her remaining household guards. Ser Wyland was but one step to her side. All she had to do was give the word, and the sands of this pale beach would be drenched in blood.

  “Instead, I shall release you and send you back to the Talon, where you may await the next opening of its Luna
r Gate to return home. I shall allow you to take your mounts and squires, though the carts and resources you brought with you so as to equip your stay here at the Hold will remain, as shall all weaponry but your daggers. Those too injured to make the journey may stay and be tended here at our infirmary. When next the Raven’s Gate opens I shall allow them to pass through the Kyferin Castle.”

  Men from both sides stared at her in confusion and wonder. The captured knights on this beach were easily worth several years’ income from all her former holdings, farms, and lands. To simply let them go? Unfathomable.

  “Ser Wyland, have each man released and escorted across the causeway to their squires after they’ve give their solemn oath to cause no further mischief and make a direct return to the Talon.”

  Ser Wyland nodded wearily. His armor was battered, his shield missing, his face carved with deep lines of weariness and pain, but he stepped forward to execute her commands without complaint.

  Iskra turned and walked back to the Hold. Bodies were being hauled out to be laid in rows in front of the Raven’s Gate, where they would be stripped of their armor and weapons by dull-eyed Hrething warriors. They straightened and nodded respectfully to her, but she gazed past them. She didn’t want to see any more blood or corpses. She’d seen enough to last her a lifetime.

  With Brocuff following dutifully at her heels, she passed through the gate’s short tunnel and out into the courtyard. As agreed, Mæva had come after the battle to ensure that she could heal the men, and had turned the open space into a field hospital. Over two dozen men lay wrapped in blankets and cloaks on the courtyard stones, cushioned only by the long grass and the numbness of sleep. Kethe was sitting against the base of the largest ash sapling, her head titled forward in a dead sleep.

  Mæva rose at her approach. “I did what I could until Kethe could take no more. Most shall live, and will even wield a weapon again if they should so choose. I fear for the lives of only three.”

  “And Kethe?” Iskra couldn’t keep the tremble from her voice. “Is she all right?”

  Mæva turned to follow her gaze. “That I cannot answer. She allowed me to heal time and again, absorbing the darkness of my magic without complaint. These men owe their chance at health directly to her. I’ve never seen the like.”

  Iskra had to claw back the urge to rush to her daughter’s side. “Will you stay and tend to them?”

  Mæva nodded. “I shall.” She hesitated, then said, “To be honest, I didn’t think we would survive the night. That we did speaks to me of miracles. I shall do what I can to aid you and yours.”

  Iskra knew she should respond with greater warmth, but all she could manage was a nod. “Thank you, Mæva. I will be calling a meeting later this afternoon to discuss our future. I hope that you can join us.”

  The witch smiled tiredly. “Here is where I should make a mocking comment about my surprise over having earned your confidence, but I am too tired. I will be there.”

  Iskra returned her tired smile and walked to her daughter. Kethe’s face was drawn, the hollows under her eyes a dark purple, and her lips were bloodless. Her face was like a waxen death mask of its normal, vital self. Iskra’s breath caught in her throat. “Brocuff,” she said woodenly. “Please take my daughter to her bedroll.”

  “Yes, my Lady,” said the constable gruffly. Had his voice caught in his throat? He picked up Kethe carefully, and then preceded Iskra into the great hall. She half expected to see Tiron standing to one side, glowering and alone, or Audsley hunched over the fire, spectacles reflecting the flames. Where were they? She felt a pang in her heart, loss and hope inextricably intertwined.

  Brocuff laid her daughter down by the fire and pulled a blanket over her shoulders. “Will there be anything else, my Lady?”

  Iskra forced a smile. “No, Constable. See to your duties, then rest. I will require your presence at this afternoon’s meeting.”

  “Very well.” He turned to go, hesitated, then turned back. “If it’s not out of line for me to say—well done, my Lady. Well done. You saw us through the night.”

  Iskra sat down alongside Kethe and gazed at her wan features. “Thank you, Constable. I can’t take too much credit, but I appreciate your words.”

  As Brocuff walked away, Iskra brushed a lock of hair from Kethe’s face and felt a sob well up deep within her. She fought it down. What was happening to her darling girl? How much was she suffering? If she could take Kethe’s pain and exhaustion into herself, she would in a moment, but there was nothing she could do. Too much had happened for her to understand all the implications, but one thing was clear: her daughter’s trials were just beginning.

  Iskra lay down beside her daughter and pulled her close. She smoothed down Kethe’s hair over and over again while humming a song she used to sing to her when she was little and couldn’t sleep.

  She thought of Kitan looming over her, knife in hand, and Tiron as he had cut the knight down. How it had felt in that moment to step into his arms. She saw again the rippling black ink of the Gate fading away, claiming him and Audsley both for the next month, if not forever. Would she ever see them again?

  Too many questions. She closed her eyes and let exhaustion steal her away.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Asho pulled open the secret door and stepped into the narrow passage, where the smell of blood and death hung thickly in the air. He held aloft his candle, but in truth he barely needed its light to make out the steps as they descended down to Audsley’s secret rooms. He walked slowly, one hand held out to trace the rough stone walls. He moved down and around, down and around, till he finally stepped out into the central chamber.

  He stared down at Kitan’s fallen body. The knight lay on his side, his azure armor gleaming in the candlelight like a treasure spied in the depths of a well. His blood had already turned black, a broad puddle that overlapped the centuries-older stain.

  Asho looked past the dead man to the now-dead Gate. Where had Audsley and Tiron gone? Would they return? What mysteries were they encountering now? They could have stepped out anywhere in the known world or beyond. Asho prayed that the Ascendant would grant that they not only return in thirty days’ time, but bring back a flicker of hope with them.

  Had it only been a few hours ago that he’d stood here with Brocuff and the other guards, intent on defeating Kitan’s forces, their breathing echoing off the vaulted ceiling, their torches casting dancing, menacing shadows across the walls? Waiting and not yet knowing that Makaria himself was stalking toward the Hold, bringing with him the key to unlocking Asho’s own damnation?

  Asho forced himself to swallow, and set the candle down on the floor. The sword was buckled at his hip. He hadn’t drawn or even touched it since sheathing it last night. Its weight had pulled at him. He’d fought desperately to keep himself distracted ever since he’d pulled himself to his feet on the causeway and gone to help Kethe rise. She’d been insensate and, cradling her to his chest, he’d staggered back to the Hold. He hadn’t dared to look closer at Makaria’s remains—the remains which had burned beneath the water, consuming what was left of the Virtue’s body with a terrible and dark hunger.

  Exhaustion assailed him. He’d kept moving ever since. No matter that he was battered and wounded, no matter that his body craved oblivion. He hadn’t dared sleep for fear of his dreams, hadn’t dared stop for fear of his memories. But now, with the wounded seen to, the enemy knights released and the dead laid out and hauled onto the far shore, he could no longer avoid his fate.

  Asho took a deep breath, closed his eyes and focused. Slowly the rushing roar of the world grew around him. It was as if he were standing in the center of a vortex, and all the magic in the world was gathering and draining down through the Hold. Whatever role this ancient castle had played in defying the Black Shriving, it was playing it still. Dimly, he could sense Kethe asleep above him in the great hall, a faint resonance that barely registered on the far edges of his mind. She was a flickering candle in the dark reac
hes of his mind. Could he reach out to her even while she slept? He didn’t dare try.

  Instead, he lowered his hand to the hilt of the sword. He hesitated, then clasped it firmly and pulled it free. Just as when he had first drawn it during his demon hunt, the runes smoldered to life and the air around the blade began to shimmer as if it were being superheated. Asho brought the blade up and studied it carefully. It was jet black, but by turning it from to side, he could make out ripples in the blade. The runes were in no language he had ever seen before.

  Asho took a deep breath, held it, and pushed from deep within his soul, cracked open his soul and poured his essence into the blade. With a whoomph the length of the sword caught fire. Ebon tongues of flame poured up its length, shot through at their very core with the darkest veins of crimson.

  It was the same fire he had seen the Agerastians wield on the battlefield. Hell fire. Flames from beyond the Black Gate. If ever there was a weapon of evil, if ever there was a tool of damnation, he was now holding it in his hand.

  Asho’s skin was crawling. Makaria had fallen to this fire. He had killed a Virtue with the fires of perdition. He wanted to laugh, but could feel hysteria lurking just beneath his panicked mirth. He extended his arm. The flames wavered and dripped from the blade, vanishing as they fell. Turning, he drew the sword’s tip across the wall. Where the tip connected with the living rock, the metal whitened and he left a thin cut behind.

  Heart pounding, he ceased feeding the flame with his will, and the flames flickered out of existence.

  His exhaustion crashed down upon him, followed immediately by a crippling sense of nausea. Asho dropped the sword and fell to his knees, palms flat on the ground, to retch and gag as his stomach churned and rebelled. For long minutes he spat up nothing but bile, and finally fell over onto his side. He felt awful.

  A memory came to him of the Agerastian Sin Casters keeling over, one by one, spitting up blood as their magic took its toll. Without Kethe, he realized, he would die. Without Kethe, his own magic would be as lethal to him as his enemies were.