by Phil Tucker
How quickly we become accustomed to miracles, thought Audsley as he joined the line.
A few minutes later, he stepped through into Mythgraefen, the moment of disorientation causing him to stumble a little. The island was bustling, completely different from the ghostly and abandoned place it had once been. All the trees and undergrowth had been cleared from its shores, and tents had been pitched everywhere. Campfires were lit beneath cooking pots, and around him he heard voices raised and speaking Hrething, Agerastian, and Ennoian.
Audsley, feeling melancholy, wove his way through the encampment, up through the front gate and into the small courtyard beyond.
The aspens, he saw, had all been sawed down, the paving stones leveled, the damage done by the fight with the demon lord's army repaired. It was a different place altogether. He realized that he felt almost nostalgic for the old Mythgraefen Hold, and laughed mockingly at himself.
Down he went into the rooms beneath the Hold, and there he identified himself to a set of Agerastian scribes who checked his name against a list of permitted travelers and nodded him through. He waved aside the Vothak, an ashen-faced old man sitting sprawled in a chair, and spoke the portal's name himself. Emerging in Starkadr, he spared but a glance for the army that was recovering there, filling the vast room and disappearing into the mist. It was an incongruous sight; their clamor was made hollow by the room's vast dimensions, but their presence drove home the reality of what Iskra was taking on: this army was destined for Aletheia. As he walked up to his portal, ignored by the hurrying messengers and patrols, the scribes and aides, the diplomats and eunuchs, he cast a considering gaze over the crowd. Could Iskra control the destruction they were about to unleash?
He spoke another demon's name and left the bustling expanse of gloomy Starkadr for Aletheia. There, the faded elegance and silence of the hall brought his sadness to a peak. He hurried away from the portal and sank onto a beautifully carved marble bench. The silence was a balm to his wounded soul, the faded beauty of the frescoes like a cold compress on his fevered brow. Exhaustion pressed down on him like a leaden cape. How, he wondered, did soldiers campaign for years on end? How did people fight season after season, without time to recover, to repair the frayed fabric of their souls?
Audsley knew he had to stand, had to make his way to Iarenna's home and once more enrobe himself in the mysterious persona with which he was seducing the Red Rowan, but that was too much to take on. Chin nodding, he closed his eyes.
He needed a moment. Just a moment in which to rest.
Audsley awoke with a cry, a curdled scream. From his hands had poured forth a terrible stream of fire, and in its path everyone he knew and loved had writhed and charred but not died. Asho, Kethe, Tiron, Iskra, Aedelbert, Roddick, his old teachers at Nous, his former master at Kyferin Castle – all of them had screamed in agony as their skin blackened and sloughed off to reveal the glistening flesh beneath.
Panting, his face slicked with sweat, Audsley climbed frantically to his feet and sprang away from the bench on which he'd slept as if it were full of scorpions. He wiped his brow, blinked frantically, removed his spectacles and pinched his eyes, and slowly the nightmare faded away.
"Oh, forgive me, forgive me," he moaned. How did men like Tiron slay and then continue on about their lives, unaffected?
You will not wish to believe me, said the Aletheian demon. But, like grief, the burden of killing others grows lighter in time.
Of course you come slithering out of your hole, said Audsley with disdain. Offering your horrific wisdom.
Not my wisdom, said the demon, unperturbed. Truth. You will remember your first kill for the rest of your life. But your tenth? Your hundredth?
Audsley scowled. I'm already deep into my own personal list. In one night I've matched the worst of the Black Wolves.
The demon shrugged. You have proven yourself willing to further your cause in the ways that matter. Now, let us proceed. Get dressed. The widow will be wondering why you have not written.
Yes, let us proceed. Audsley sighed. I'll not waste my time reasoning with you.
He went to where he'd left his robes and changed into them carefully, one after the other. He tightened sashes, hitched sleeves, and when he was finally ready, he felt a certain measure of – what? Resolve? As if the robes were a form of armor, and donning them had girded his own resolution.
When he reached the Circum, he sent a messenger to fetch a palanquin with the requisite haughty disdain. A minutes later one hove into view, a team of eight carrying it swiftly, their stride admirably in lockstep, the palanquin elegant but not gaudy. Audsley stepped forward at precisely the right moment, gazing off to the left as if he was disinterested, and the men slowed and lowered the palanquin to the ground.
Their leader, a muscled young man in the prime of his health, went to the door and opened it courteously. "To where does the noble gentleman wish to be conveyed?"
Audsley entered and sat down gratefully on the upholstered seat. "To the Miliaka Estate."
The young man hesitated.
Something is amiss.
"The Miliaka Estate? As you command."
"Hold." Audsley fought to keep his tone disinterested. "I am only now returned from a sojourn to a Sigean monastery. What events have I missed?"
The young man bowed deeply. "It is not for one such as I to gainsay your commands, my lord. But I shall risk censure by telling you that great misfortune has befallen the Miliakas, and visiting them may besmirch your own honor."
Control, hissed the demon. School your expression!
"Misfortune?" Audsley tried for an airy tone. "What manner of misfortune?"
"I do not know the details, my lord. But it is said that Lady Iarenna has been sequestered by the Virtues, and her father has closed the estate and now resides permanently in Sige in disgrace."
"Oh," said Audsley. "What a pity. I did so like their tea. Well, no matter."
What now? What now?
The Red Rowan is your only hope, unless we seek out an abandoned estate in which to hide like beasts. Tell them to take you to the Gilded Lily on the Fourth Level. We will spend the day there and arrange to visit the Rowan come nightfall.
"To the Gilded Lily on the Fourth Level," said Audsley. "And be quick about it."
"Yes, my lord," the young man said with obvious relief, and hurried to his pole.
The palanquin rose smoothly, turned, and then began to slide forward through the sparse crowd. Audsley closed the curtains on both sides and pressed his hands to his face. Iarenna! Sequestered?
Held for treason, said the Aletheian demon. Tortured, no doubt, into revealing all she knew about yourself and Lady Iskra.
"Oh, the Ascendant shield her," whispered Audsley. Horror pulsed through him. Tortured? He thought of her bright, intelligent eyes, of the demure manner that hid a rich, strong spirit, her selfless help, her generosity, and felt nauseous.
How can I help her?
You cannot. Perhaps a highly placed Minister could ask the Virtues to release her, but you? Impossible.
It was all too much. Audsley focused on his breathing. Iarenna! Could he storm the Virtues' Temple and use his powers to break her free?
Madness. The Virtues would slay us in a moment.
Then what? Audsley searched for a solution. Turn himself in? No, that would not absolve Iarenna of her guilt.
Kethe.
Kethe was a Virtue. She might be able to help. But how could he reach her? He couldn't visit the Temple; he'd risk being detected and killed. He had to get word to her through a messenger. Arrange for a meeting.
Do so from the safety of the Red Rowan's home. A message from her will not arouse suspicion.
Audsley nodded. Very well. I shall do whatever it takes.
I shall do everything within my power to help you liberate your friend, said the demon. There is yet hope for her.
Thank you, said Audsley, and for the first time since Laur Castle, he felt grateful for the demon's pre
sence.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Tharok sat alone within a bare room inside Porloc's old compound. Distantly, he could hear the city of Gold convulsing as his thousands upon thousands of kragh infested it. He could smell smoke and cooking flesh, could sense the euphoria and terror, the primal lust for power that was on the verge of being truly awakened amongst his kind once more.
But all that came at a remove, sensed only dimly. His entire being was focused on absorbing and understanding what he had to do next. How he could encompass the enormity of the task ahead of him. He sat with his huge shoulders hunched, breathing shallowly through his nose, chin on the backs of his hands, seeking to master the scope of his task.
The circlet burned. Never had it felt so oppressive, so heavy on his brow. World Breaker lay across his knees. He felt the ebb and flow of fire through his blood, the curse and gift of the Medusa's Kiss. Errant thoughts bubbled up in his mind: amidst such power and blessings, where was Tharok? Who was he? What was he?
Enough. There was no time for foolishness.
Great, roiling thoughts were coalescing in his mind, as if a storm of black energy shot through with crackling crimson lightning were spiraling down from the heavens into his mind. His whole body was braced to absorb its impact, and occasionally shivers would pass through his muscles as he groaned and tensed and then relaxed.
He had succeeded in awakening the kragh, and they had passed a tipping point. There would be no returning to the old ways now, barring his death. More tribes were streaming into Gold to join his horde by the hour. His numbers were swelling beyond count. Soon they would have to march, compelled by nothing less than hunger as they devoured Porloc's vast herds. But before they marched, Tharok had to accomplish the impossible.
He had to forge his horde into an army.
Ruling, administration, campaigning with such large numbers – none of that was the kragh way. The kragh were a force of nature that, when unleashed, spilled out across the land like a flood. They cared not for logistics, preparation, scouting, chains of command. To them, there was only the warlord and those who obeyed his orders.
And yet, they were going up against the Ascendant Empire. They were a wave that was going to throw itself against the rock of Abythos, the sole entrance to the Empire, one that had been endlessly fortified ever since the demise of Ogri the Uniter. They were a wave that would crash and fall back unless it struck with enough force and direction.
Enchus' description of Abythos – of its defenses and the centuries of work that had gone into preparing it for the next kragh attack – had sobered his bloodlust, had dismayed and appalled him. Abythos was no fortress. It was a deathtrap, perfectly calibrated to annihilate the kragh. It mattered not if he marched with ten thousand or a hundred. Without the perfect plan, he was doomed to failure.
How could he strike the perfect compromise between organization and kragh ferocity? He needed to be able to bring all his resources to bear as he needed them when entering battle, not simply watch helplessly as his tribes streamed onto the field of war in chaotic fashion, ignorant of strategy and coordination.
But how?
He had to weld existing kragh power structures into a new framework. Worse, he had to compel tens of thousands of kragh to accept and adopt this new structure in a matter of weeks.
Warlords. Clan chiefs. Wise Women. Shamans. The lowlanders had discarded the role of their Wise Women in their degeneracy, gutting the councils and breaking with the seasonal mating cycles as they adopted human cities and rhythms. The shamans were under siege, their numbers being scythed down by Kyrra as she claimed them for her own. The warlords remained, the most visible arm of military might, but insufficient to the task.
Tharok groaned and sat up straight, thumbed his eyes and stretched his back. Rose and began to pace.
There was a way. In this tangle of loyalties, alliances, spiritual beliefs and kragh nature, there was a path toward military success. He simply had to find it.
Clans could range from five to fifty individuals. Tribes could range from a hundred to a thousand. That numerical variability rendered them unfit to be used as the building blocks of an army. It wasn't that the kragh would rebel if they were forced to break down those societal units, but rather that they simply wouldn't understand what was being asked of them. It would be like trying to teach mountain goats to fly.
Tharok stopped in front of a blank wall and stared at its smooth expanse. Here were the Five Peaks. The Chasm Walk descended so, down to Porloc's Wall, and then the expanse of the southern lowlands. The Orlokor territory stretched from here to here, encompassing some ten thousand kragh. He narrowed his eyes and visualized where the greatest clans lived within those areas. He located the smaller groups, each glowing a different color in his mind's eye.
Fifteen thousand kragh were his to command. He would divide them into units of a thousand each. Tribes large enough to compose a single unit, like the Crokuk, would need no restructuring. Others would be merged until they were of sufficient size. That done, he would rework the clans so that each tribe was composed of ten. Ten, one hundred, a thousand. The units of his future army.
Tharok laughed and waved his hand, and the imaginary map vanished. Might as well teach goats to fly!
But no, there was a way to compel obedience, to break down the basic society of the kragh and reforge them as he saw fit.
Tharok stilled, staring out into the middle distance. Of course – he simply had to wield the one power that could instill the blindest of loyalty: religion.
Not the spiritual oversight and benign guidance of the shamans. The old shamans were now his enemy, huddling in his great hall, awaiting his decision, praying that the spirits would guide Tharok toward wisdom as they saw it.
He had to turn Kyrra to his purpose, had to reconcile her to serving him and enforcing his will – which meant embracing her religion. Which meant returning to the bad old ways of blood and sacrifice, fire and burning. It meant enslaving the kragh to their old gods, purposely placing a slave collar around each neck and forcing them to bend knee to the medusa.
Tharok shivered again, a core fragment of his soul seeking to rebel, to roar in outrage. He shook, grimaced, and ground his teeth against that moment of weakness.
With a gasp, he relaxed and opened his eyes. There was no other way, nothing as effective and quick. With only two or three weeks left, he needed Kyrra. She was his sole solution, a means to an end. He would wield her as he would a poisoned blade, for only as long as he needed her, then, when the time was right, he'd snap that blade over his knee and wrest his people from their mindless serfdom.
The decision made, he strode to the door and placed his hand on the knob. All he had to do was open it, give the command, and his people would be changed – and yet, he couldn't turn the knob. He gritted his teeth and stared at his hand, willing it to turn, but it wouldn't move.
This is necessary, he thought. This is but a step, one of many. Now, open the damn door.
With a groan, he hauled it open.
The hallway outside was filled with kragh seeking an audience, and they startled and turned to him, mouths opening to cry out their requests. Tharok didn't give them the chance. He turned to Barok, the Red River's weapons master.
"Clear the hall below. Take the shamans into side rooms. Light the bonfires. Summon Kyrra. Tell her I have a proposition to make."
Barok blinked, his craggy brow lowering in surprise. "Kyrra? You are sure, warlord?"
Tharok didn't bother to answer. He stepped past Barok and began to stride down the hall, with kragh shoving themselves aside to make room for him. His mind had already turned to other matters.
Half an hour later, he was sitting high on Porloc's throne, looking over the empty hall, waiting. Crudely cleaned tree trunks served as pillars lining each wall, holding up the barrel ceiling from which hung war banners from past campaigns. Weapons of Porloc's dead foes were crossed over shields. The ground was covered in animal skins ranging
from huge bears to lush mountain goats to the hides of great lizards. Braziers were burning beneath the pillars, sending up as much black smoke as fire.
Tharok waited. He knew that events outside demanded his attention. Gold was ready to burst into violence, ancient grudges and tribal rivalries having been pushed to the breaking point by close proximity. Only his low-circling wyverns kept hands away from weapons.
The two great doors at the end of the hall were pushed open. Tharok sat up straight as the black-robed shamans entered, Kyrra undulating in their midst. She was glorious. By the Sky Father, seeing her flaming colors and the perfection of her body never failed to take away his breath.
Regal, cold, radiating a predatory menace that boded poorly for this meeting, Kyrra moved forward, flanked by her shamans, her gaze locked on Tharok, its weight burning him where he sat.
Tharok rose and stood silent, waiting. She moved up the center of the hall, not glancing around, plainly not worried about this being a trap. When she was perhaps five yards from him, she stopped, coiling her great serpentine body beneath her.
"Tharok. You've done well. Better than I had thought possible."
Tharok waved his hand as if dismissing her words. "We both want power, Kyrra. When you employed the Medusa's Kiss on our shamans, you surprised me. I reacted aggressively and retook the initiative with my wyverns. I am now the undisputed master of this horde, while you are but a growing threat."
Anger flickered in the depths of Kyrra's gaze. "You've not had your pets seek to kill me. You know the danger in letting me come this close. I could kill you now, where you stand. Yet you don't fear that. Why not? What new stratagem has your circlet concocted, Tharok?"