by Phil Tucker
They were his. They would fly where he willed. His mind was more powerful than theirs. He grinned, tusks bared, eyes slitted against the cold wind.
There.
The Chasm Walk had been gradually widening beneath him as it levelled out, the lowlands appearing in all their rich greenery just beyond. Below, he could make out a great bottled mass that filled the very tail of the Walk: a seething sea of kragh packed shoulder to shoulder, held in check by the great expanse of Porloc's wall.
They hadn't broken through. They had been held back. Nok had succeeded in warning the Orlokor.
Perfect.
The vast wall was bristling with lowland kragh, and beyond it stretched the assembled might of the lowlander tribe – enough to dwarf the two thousand highland orcs and Tragon who had marched down to challenge Porloc.
Tharok leaned forward, knees clenched tight around the wyvern's neck, and tried to guess the number of Orlokor who had assembled. Four thousand? Five? It was nearly impossible to tell. They had pitched an endless number of huts, organized by clan, and created a new city beyond the Wall, the size of which matched Porloc's Gold.
Tharok felt a spike of sheer joy lance through him. He nudged the wyverns with his mind, and as one they began to descend. The wind tugged at Tharok's hair, brought tears to his eyes, and dried out the insides of his mouth, and it took all his strength not to bellow a war cry in his avalanche voice. Down they went, and he could make out a huge central platform raised on kragh shoulders in the midst of the highlander forces: Kyrra, recumbent in her glory, no doubt glaring with frustration at the impregnable wall that defied her.
At this sight, Tharok laughed. Had she seen him? Did she understand what the flight of wyverns overhead portended? If anyone below did, it was her. But, no matter. Some things were beyond her control. She had not had the foresight to understand and manipulate them. She was a piece to be played, like all the others.
Down they flew, and now kragh were pointing at him and crying out from the top of the wall, panic surging through their ranks like fire. The highland orcs and Tragon noticed and looked up, and their bellows and roars filtered up thinly to where Tharok was flying. Ancient instincts were compelling the kragh to flee, to find shelter. The shadow of one wyvern caused terror. What might fifty such shadows do?
Tharok leaned back as the wyvern's descent grew more precipitous. He was riding the largest female, an ancient brood queen whose life had to span centuries. Her wings stretched out to guide and cup the wind, and now panic had given way to terror on the top of the wall and lowlanders were hurling their weapons aside, diving behind the crenellations, screaming and shoving at each other.
Tharok roared, the sheer uprush of dominance making him feel invincible. With a whoosh he skimmed right over the wall's edge, fifty more wyverns right behind him, darkening the land. In the blink of an eye he was over and the wall was behind him, out over the massed Orlokor who had gathered behind the main gate, thousands of them in rough ranks, so low he could have leaned over and swept his blade down upon them.
He saw the whites of their eyes as they threw themselves to the ground, all discipline, all self-control, all resolution withering in the face of the impossible. Tharok felt himself a god, touching the sheer glory that the Sky Father himself had to wield every day. The wyverns trumpeted, and he allowed some to snatch up kragh as they flew over their heads, wrenching random soldiers skyward, tossing them cartwheeling through the air to land on their fellows.
Up, he ordered, and the great matriarch beat her wings ponderously, fighting for altitude, her downdraft scattering more soldiers as she flew out over the first huts. Up they went, curling off to the left, slowly gaining height, the other fifty following, a morass of scaled death fighting for sky.
Tharok felt the first trolls reach the far rear of his own army. They were in full sprint, their long legs having devoured untold miles, and he bid them roar, bid them force their way to the fore of his force. All sixty of them plunged into the ranks from behind, opening up bloody channels as they knocked kragh aside, crushed them underfoot, and waded ahead like rogue boulders punching through herds of sheep. Let his own forces remember who led them, who their true warlord was. Let them leap and curse and scream at the sight of his trolls. Let them see his mastery close up and know him unbeatable.
Tharok leaned into the curve, flying higher and higher. He glanced behind him to see that the wyverns had formed a column some two or three wide, twenty long, a great tail of beating wings. He grabbed hold of the largest horns at the rear of the matriarch's head and climbed up, balanced on her back, drew his blade and pointed it at the sky.
Every eye below was riveted on him. The Orlokor on the walls had turned their backs to their enemy so they could gaze at the unfurling might of his wyverns as they circled and climbed. He could feel the eddies of fear washing over them slowly turn to wonder as they realized the wyverns were under his control. That wonder turned to awe as they marveled at his power.
Tharok exulted, leaning out over the void, holding on tenuously to the single horn, the floor beneath his boots live flesh. He wanted to leap out, to fly under his own aegis, to be dependent on no living thing. He wanted his roar to be a wyvern's air-shattering trumpet, or a stone troll's ground-cracking cry.
But there were limits, and it was time to bring an end to this display. He whipped his command into the minds of forty of the wyverns, and they broke off from the flight and swooped down with sudden and terrible speed toward the wall, fanning out to form a line. Wind plucked the sweat from Tharok's brow as he focused, guiding, nudging, forming them as he desired. Then, with another roar, he had them land as one on the top of the wall, wings and tails lashing out to topple Orlokor down to their doom, claws scrabbling on rock, jaws snapping, covering the entirety of the wall in bronzed flesh.
Down, he urged. Down, old one.
The matriarch furled her wings, rolled over to the left, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second Tharok's feet came right off her back and he was holding on solely to her one horn, his body in free fall, his stomach lurching up, black terror trying to claw for purchase in his mind. He rebuffed it, held on, and her barrel roll resolved itself into a downward dive, pulling him faster than he could fall, causing him to flatten out against her back as they plummeted, flashing down in a few seconds what had taken minutes to climb.
The ground rushed up toward them, the kragh swelling in size, those directly beneath him hurling themselves aside so that an open space appeared like an anticipatory crater. At the very last his wyvern trumpeted, a deep, reverberating bellow that deafened Tharok. She snapped open her wings, pulled out of her dive and landed, huge haunches taking her weight as she sank low to the ground, wings sending out stinging walls of dust and dirt, her tail scything through the ranks of remaining kragh.
Tharok unlocked his legs from around her neck, knowing this moment was critical, that only a hair's breadth separated victory from bedlam. Chest cramped from tension and lack of breath, he climbed up the wyvern's broad neck, right up to her crest of bone and horns, and there steadied himself, rocking gently from side to side as the matriarch swayed her head, sword in hand, lungs heaving, grinning madly at the overwhelmed Orlokor who lay and sat and cowered in a circle around him, eyes wide, ears drooping, weapons gone from their hands.
Silence, he ordered, and as one the trumpeting of the wyverns was cut short. They stilled where they were perched, not even hissing, all eyes locked on him, waiting, hungry for his next command.
The confusion and cries of the Orlokor subsided into awe once more, and the incipient stampede away from him died as the kragh slowed, looked over their shoulders, and wondered at what was to come. The silence became contagious, spreading out just as quickly as the fear had done, and though the ranks had been shattered, though their discipline had been shredded, the Orlokor once more stood still, eyes wide, waiting, watching, unable to tear their eyes away from where Tharok rose high above them, riding the head of their most ancient
predator.
"Porloc!" Tharok put everything he had into his roar, straining to summon every reserve of his avalanche voice, bruising the very air with his punishing volume. "Porloc! It is I, Tharok! Come! Your blood-son summons you!"
The kragh around him tore their eyes away from where he was standing and looked toward the huge gate to the wall, the massive entrance to the rooms and passageways and stairwells carved into the vast wall's guts.
The gate didn't open.
Tharok grinned. "Porloc!" He pointed his blade directly at the gate. "Come forth! Don't make me pry you out! It is I, Tharok! Tharok the Uniter! I have come for what is mine. I have come for World Breaker!"
As one, every wyvern let out a trumpeting cry, necks rising, snouts pointing toward the sky, wings flaring out wide. Instinct led most of the Orlokor to cower, some throwing themselves face-down to the dirt.
Power rode through Tharok's veins. The circlet seared his brow, burning and blistering his hide even as the Medusa's Kiss healed his flesh.
He had not been able to foresee whether Porloc's cowardice would bring him forth or cause him to cower. He had not known if he would need to tear the wall apart in his quest for the Orlokor warlord. Yet he had no fear. He could sense his trolls gaining the far side of the wall. At his command, they would begin tearing at the rock face, opening up huge rents through which they would climb and begin to search for his quarry. Porloc could not hide from him. Nobody could.
Finally, the gate opened. With a huge, shuddering creak, it parted and swung out to reveal Porloc sitting astride his horse, which skittered and side-stepped in fear. The warlord looked shrunken, his eyes wide, his mouth a thin slit. He was holding World Breaker in his right fist, raised it high, and with effort he urged his mount forward.
"Tharok!" Porloc's voice was thin and insubstantial compared to Tharok's avalanche roar. "You are no blood-son of mine! I turn my face from you!"
Tharok grinned. It was not cowardice that had brought the warlord forth. What a surprise.
"Tharok!" Porloc rode forward, ungainly on the overlarge horse. "World Breaker is mine! Mine!" The lowlander's voice nearly broke. His horse sidestepped violently, bucking and tossing his head, but Porloc held on, lent unnatural strength by the blade he bore. "You want it? Come tear it from my hands!"
"With pleasure, warlord," rumbled Tharok. "With pleasure. Come at me!"
So saying, he leaped down to the wyvern's shoulders, wrapped his legs around the base of her neck, and urged her forward, Wyverns were not made for walking, could at best hop before taking off, but Tharok had no intention of jousting with Porloc. The wyvern trumpeted again, the sound causing the closest kragh to wail and cover their ears, then hopped forward, once, twice, thrice, and with a great beat of her wings left the ground.
Porloc screamed, pointed World Breaker at Tharok, and charged. His horse, half-maddened by terror, fought him, but could not resist the warlord's urgings. It shrilled and burst forward, breaking into a gallop although it ran with its head turned away, staring at Tharok with only one wide, rolling eye.
The wyvern beat her wings furiously, pounding the air, but not in an attempt to gain height. Instead, she skipped forward, gaining speed, claws touching down to clutch and tear at the rocky ground before launching herself at Porloc and his mount. Faster she went, powering ahead, straight into the oncoming horse.
They collided with horrific force, and Tharok heard bones crunch and snap within Porloc's steed even as the wyvern shot its head out to snatch the Orlokor warlord straight out of his saddle, her jaws closing around his chest.
Porloc screamed as he was lifted up, and even in his death throes he raised World Breaker high to sever the wyvern's neck.
Tharok roared and leaped, allowing the wyvern's arrested momentum to throw him right at Porloc, and some ten yards above the ground he brought his own sword scything down and through the warlord's bicep, cleaving straight through muscle and bone and shearing his arm clear off.
Tharok fell, dust roiling up and blinding him, hit the ground hard and tucked into a roll. Stones dug into him, and the blow nearly knocked the breath clear out of his lungs, but then he was up and turning. The matriarch was screeching as she bit deep into Porloc, and then she threw her head back, tossed the dying warlord's body high, opened her gullet and allowed him to slide headfirst into her throat. Tharok watched, spellbound, as she coughed and distended her lower jaw. Porloc's legs kicked, he slid in further, another few feet, and then he was gone.
Silence descended around them, and the dust clouds drifted away. Porloc's massive horse was dead, its proud body broken and bent, eyes gazing up unseeing at the sky. Tharok saw World Breaker a few paces away and walked toward it. It was a great scimitar made of black metal, broad and fell, with a cross guard made of crimson metal. Porloc's hand still clenched the hilt of black sable.
Tharok's breath came in sharp hitches. He squatted and picked up the blade by the cross guard, and slowly, methodically, pried Porloc's fingers open till the arm fell with a thud to the dirt. Tharok raised World Breaker up high and stared at it, marveling, knowing that this was a turning point, a portentous moment in the history of his race.
With a cry, he reached up and closed his fingers around the hilt. Strength flooded through him, strength beyond even that which the Medusa's Kiss had granted. His heart surged, began to pound mightily in his chest, and he could almost feel his frame buckle as it sought to encompass the energies that boiled through him. His bones creaked, his joints groaned, and he felt himself growing more massive, his shoulders broader, his chest deeper.
Tharok shuddered. Had any kragh ever worn Ogri's Circlet, borne World Breaker, and been blessed with a Medusa's Kiss all at once? Surely not. Surely the world would have been riven by such a being long ago, and all would bow and pray and worship that kragh's name.
Tharok shuddered once more. His body felt alien to him. Larger. A weapon of war.
He began to march toward the wall, toward the gates that still stood open. The Orlokor parted before him. The matriarch hobbled and hopped after him, walking on the elbows of her wings and two great claws as he strode to the gate and gazed into the gloom beyond: the short passage that led to the exterior, to the far gate, barred and sealed against his kragh.
Two dozen Orlokor warriors cowered beneath his gaze. Tharok raised World Breaker and pointed it at them. "Open it," he growled.
They hurried to obey. The main crossbeam, as broad as a tree, was lifted with great effort and allowed to crash down to the ground. More were removed, and then with a cry they hauled on the chains that pulled the reinforced doors apart.
A sliver of sunlight appeared down the center of the gate, then yawned wider. With his wyvern following, Tharok strode through the passage and out to the other side, where he gazed upon the mass of highland warriors. His stone trolls were ranged out to his left and right, just in front of the walls, though now they turned to track his passage. The matriarch dipped her head as she passed through the wall, then hopped out into the sunlight.
Tharok ordered her to lower her head, seized a horn, and had her raise him up high, swinging out and around to mount behind her crest as he had before. He could hear his wyverns shifting overhead as they looked down upon him. He gazed out over his two thousand kragh – the numerous clans and tribes, faces familiar and strange. He allowed his gaze to wander until at last he deigned to stare at Kyrra in the center. The medusa had uncoiled and risen to her full height, her head of serpentine hair wavering and hissing in fury.
With a roar, Tharok thrust World Breaker into the air, and at that same moment every wyvern screamed its fury and each troll bellowed its cry. The kragh flinched back, then, as one, pounded the ground and roared back, two thousand kragh screaming themselves raw in wonder and approval and a frenzy of blood lust and joy.
The sound was like nothing Tharok had ever heard. It washed over him like a blessing of war as he gazed out over his warriors, his soldiers, the kragh who would change the face of this
world. He rode his wyvern's neck as she wove her head back and forth, still trumpeting, and then pointed World Breaker through the gate.
"Follow! Follow me to Gold! Follow me to Abythos, and then through its Gates into the Ascendant Empire! Follow me to death, to blood, to slaughter! Follow me to ruin, follow me to glory, follow me into legend!"
The kragh surged forward, forking around his wyvern to pour through the gate into the lowlands. Weapons clashed against shields, thousands of boots stomped the dirt, war cries and chants broke out everywhere as the kragh poured through the gate, an unstoppable tide of unleashed lust and ferocity.
Kyrra's platform remained where it was, not joining the flood. Her whole body wove much like the wyvern's neck as she gazed out at him over the army, flanked now by some dozen shamans in robes of black.
Tharok grinned, displaying his lower tusks to best effect, and then purposefully, cuttingly, turned his back to her and whispered to his wyvern. She squatted, lashed her tail, and then leaped up into the air, wings beating mightily. His kragh roared at seeing him fly, their cries following him up, and he ordered the other wyverns to take flight as well. It was time to take Gold, to consolidate his army, to prepare it for their first true test.
Tharok slitted his eyes and strained to see over the misty horizon, to make out his destination. To see the mighty walls of Abythos.
Elation surged within him at the thought. Abythos! he wanted to roar. Your doom approaches!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tiron was riding alone along a narrow country lane between two high banks that spilled blooming heather down their sides in luxurious quantities. The purple flowers stirred as a cold wind blew over the moorland that extended west of Castle Kyferin all the way to the Osterling Forest. He was riding alone, but his mind was crowded with memories, riven and near breaking.
He sat slumped in the saddle, his steed walking forward slowly, each clop of its dinner-plate-sized hooves sending a shock through Tiron's body. He'd been riding all day, driven at first by a mindless ferocity which had by degrees dwindled to a bloody-minded determination, then to a haggard resolve, and finally eroded down to base stubbornness that kept him in the saddle.