The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (17 page)

“Do you really regret it?” Wyland asked.

Asho sighed. “I—no. I don’t know.” He felt exhausted. “Maybe not.”

“No,” agreed Wyland. “And you did avenge your sister. You’re a knight, against all odds. You’re standing here in service to Lady Kyferin while her husband is gone.”

Asho smiled bitterly. “A knight. It hasn’t changed anything. I’m still despised. I’m still ignored. Still a Bythian.”

Ser Wyland’s blow took him completely by surprise. Asho stumbled and crashed to the stone floor, head ringing. Wyland stepped over him. “If you truly believe that, stay down.”

Asho pushed himself up to sitting, tasting blood. He climbed to his feet and drew his sword just in time to block a cut from Ser Wyland, who had drawn his own sword with startling speed. Backing away, Asho gripped his blade with both hands, eyes wide.

“Knighting a man does not make him a knight,” said Ser Wyland, advancing. “Nor does armor, a sword, or power.” He glided forward and slammed his sword down once, twice, three times, the strength of his blows causing Asho to grit his teeth and fall back each time. Ser Wyland’s voice was implacable. “A true knight remains such even if he loses everything. His name. His reputation. His wealth. His weapons. His friends.” Each statement was accompanied by another blow. Asho had to keep backing away, circling around the inside of the battlements.

Ser Wyland paused, then asked, “Are you a true knight?”

Asho hesitated. Ser Wyland shook his head and surged forward, and for the next ten seconds Asho fought for his life, backing away again and again as he desperately parried the bigger man’s blows.

Ser Wyland paused, not even out of breath, and pointed at Asho with his leveled sword. “Nobody can answer that question but you. Nobody can make you a knight. Not even the Grace himself. Nobody can take it away. When you refrained from murdering Lord Kyferin, you proved yourself noble. So I ask you again: Do you still have that strength within you?”

Asho felt a surge of anger. “What do you know about being a true knight? You followed Lord Kyferin. You were a Black Wolf. You call them true knights?”

Ser Wyland lowered his blade. “No. I don’t.”

“Then why did you fight with them?”

Ser Wyland hesitated. “I’ve wrestled with that question for years. Was it better to stay home and refuse to fight for Lord Kyferin? Preserve my honor and shut myself away from the world? Or go out amongst their number and do what I could to help others? Offer counsel that might sway his actions toward justice, seek to provide an example that might influence the other men? I chose to do what I could, no matter how hard the road.”

Asho wanted to lash back out at him. Handsome, strong, lauded and privileged, what right did Wyland have to lecture him on hardship? “You’re an Ennoian. Nobody has ever hated you for being born in the wrong cycle of Ascension. What do you know about hard roads?”

“More than you may think.” Ser Wyland raised his blade again. “Now, Lady Kyferin has only two knights left in her service. Will you let go of your anger, put your past behind you, and serve her as a true knight?”

Asho smiled bitterly. “How do you think I’ve managed to get this far? It’s been my anger that’s kept me on my feet, my hatred of Lord Kyferin that refused to let him break me. You want me to play the part of a good Bythian slave and thank my masters for their abuse? No.” He raised his sword. “I’m a knight now. I don’t need anybody to like me. I don’t need people to admire me. All I need is my sword and my will to serve Lady Kyferin. The rest can go hang.”

Ser Wyland straightened. His expression grew hard. “I’m sorry to hear that. You’ve a hard road ahead of you, Asho, if you think a blade is all it takes to be a knight.”

Asho struggled with his desire to impress Wyland. He thought of Shaya; thought of Trutwin’s scowl just moments before, and the thousands that had preceded it. “I cannot forget the life that has made me who I am.” His words felt like hammer blows on his soul. “You’re right. I don’t know how hard your road has been. But I do know you were born an Ennoian lord.” Asho fought to keep the scorn from his voice. “You’ve lived a life of luxury and had everything handed to you. I’ve had to claw my way to this position from the depths of Bythos itself. You can’t understand me. You can’t understand what I’ve been through, or what it takes to keep standing.”

His heart was thudding. His words sounded overly loud to his own ears as he spoke truths he’d never before dared voice to an Ennoian so baldly. “So, no. I won’t give up who I am, or what has made me strong. I won’t pretend to be a gracious Ennoian knight. I’m Bythian. I’m Asho. And I will serve my Lady with every ounce of my being while never forgetting where I came from.”

Ser Wyland sighed and sheathed his blade. “Very well. That is my answer, then. We are bound to fight together in our service of Lady Kyferin.” He paused and studied Asho, his dark eyes pensive and almost sorrowful. “I fear that your trials are just beginning, ser knight. But I see you, and mark you as my brother. I shall be here for you if you ever wish to talk. I will be here to help you stand if ever you should fall. My shield shall always be at your back, and my sword at your side. We are Black Wolves. We live and die for the Kyferins.”

Asho felt a chill run through him. The Black Wolf oath. Should he repeat it? No, he was no Black Wolf. He was no part of any brotherhood. Instead, he bowed stiffly. “Thank you, Ser Wyland. I swear to you that I shall do my best to serve Lady Kyferin with all my heart and soul.”

Ser Wyland sighed and clasped Asho’s forearm in a warrior’s grip. “I know you will, lad. Of that I have no doubt. Now, come. There’s much for us to see to.”

He marched to the trapdoor and turned to descend down the ladder and out of sight.

Asho hesitated and stepped to the battlement and gazed out over the countryside. He felt his emotions roiling, a confluence of excitement and doubt, regret and determination. Was he right in his beliefs? Could Asho the Bythian become someone else—Asho the knight?

He thought of Shaya, turning away from him to ride to Ennoia’s solar gate, and felt again his heartbreak and despair. No, he wouldn’t forget her, wouldn’t forget his past, wouldn’t turn his back on his past and pretend he was other than he was. It had gotten him this far.

“I swear to you, Lady Kyferin. I shall be your bravest and truest knight.”

The wind tore his words from his lips, and drowned them in its soft wail.

CHAPTER TEN

Delirious, blood frozen black in the numerous cuts and gashes that had been opened in his dark hide, his roughshod boots near split and broken, reeling and exhausted, Tharok looked up and saw that he had navigated the perilous maze of shattered ice to reach the mouth of the great glacier. How long he had climbed, he knew not. How he had avoid the pitfalls and chasms, he couldn’t explain. No one but Ogri had even been so high, the very roof of the world, for no longer did the peaks and tops of mountains soar above him. Now he stood in their midst, each peak but a jagged rise to one side, the point of a crown into whose heart the Dragon’s Breath swept.

The silence resonated, vast and spellbinding, the great sweep of the highest plateau in the world terrible in its soundless splendor. Never had the sky been so open above him, dark with night and glorious with the iridescent shimmer of countless constellations. Tharok fell to his knees and gazed at where the buckled surface of the glacier fanned open into the Valley of the Dead, a sight more beautiful and terrible than any he had imagined.

Ghosts had tormented him, shades of kragh he had never known, faces to which he could not put names. Great chieftains of eras past, foul shamans who gibbered and danced about him as they howled their incantations into the night. He had heard chants that had not been sung by living throats for centuries, had ignored voices that spoke with accents so thick that the meaning of their words could not be divined. He had walked amongst legends and given them no mind, for by his side he had caught glimpses of his father, climbing with him to the Valley of the Dead. Together for the last time they had climbed, but now his father’s ghost had disappeared. Now Tharok was alone.

With effort Tharok arose once more. He would walk into the heart of the Valley, and there lie down and let the cold steal his heart’s heat from him. The ice beneath his boots had grown compact, so with increasing confidence he moved forward, stumbling only because of his extreme fatigue and the pervasive numbness that now filled his body, up the final rise of the glacier—and then his boots crunched the snow of the Valley itself. Tharok stepped out onto the land of the dead.

About him, invisible but sensed in the way that a hand plunged into a quiet stream can sense the turbulence of the flowing current, surged the spirits of his ancestors. They did not call to him, did not heed him, but they were there, illimitable and present in the ecstasy of death. Tharok moved through them, walked out step by dragging step into the cupped valley, and only then did he begin to sing his dirge, his song of death. From the depths of his chest he sang, his voice low and reverberating, using his avalanche voice such that the night air resonated like a struck bell. He sang in the old manner, introducing himself, telling of his deeds; sang of his ancestors, sang of the joy of summer and spring, the sorrow of autumn and the death that came in winter. He struggled forward, the snow deepening, eyes closing for stretches of time as he waded into the center of his own death.

Ahead lay a great mound standing tall in the center of the valley. Tharok moved toward it. It wouldn’t be long now. Only the very tips of the Five Peaks were closer to the Sky Father than he was. Perhaps he would climb a peak himself and from there leap upward and be taken into the sky.

He gained the mound. It was as big as a lowland house. He reached out to take hold of the rock so that he might pull himself up and then froze as his hand closed on scales beneath the snow. He brushed snow aside in great sweeps of his hand and revealed a patch of blue, the color of the soul of a glacier, a great hide with scales as large as his palm. He reeled, then, with an energy he thought had been expended long ago, he swept the snow from the flank of the dead dragon.

He uncovered most of its side before he abandoned the task and surged toward the front where the mound tapered and narrowed down to the ground. There he uncovered a great and sinuous neck, massive horned scales rising along the central ridge all the way down to the head. With reverence he swept the snow from vast horns, the bony ridges over the eyes, the heavy muscles of the jaw. The dragon’s eyes were closed, and when he was done and stepped back, it seemed as if Jaermungdr was asleep, peaceful in the grip of an eternal winter. Tharok knew awe such as he had never felt before, staring upon true legend made flesh, the grandest tale of the kragh, the mount of the greatest leader they had ever known.

With a cry he roused himself, shook off the cold, and gazed about at the snow. If Jaermungdr lay here, then so did the Uniter. Clumsily he began to cast about, moving in circles about Jaermungdr’s body, weaving drunkenly beneath the cruel stars. He had begun to despair when he tripped and fell, hands plunging into the snow as he toppled and then lay still.

It was hard to breathe, to get enough air into his lungs. He felt a terrible comfort, a languor that was more delicious then red flesh, more enticing than the open thighs of a female or the deepest softness of a bed of furs. He lay still and knew that he was sinking at long last, the vital fire that burned within him finally guttering. With a great effort of will he turned onto his back and looked up at the stars. He would never join them, had not done anything sufficient to merit such an honor, but lying here was honor enough. To have found Jaermungdr, to have been permitted entry to the Valley of the Dead, to gaze upon these sights with living eyes—that was, he decided, honor enough.

Reaching up, he brushed a flurry of snow from his eyes and then allowed his arm to collapse by his side. His forearm fell across a hard object, something sharp and unnatural in the snow. Dim curiosity pricked him. Turning his head, he gazed at the bank of snow into which his arm had fallen and dug deeper, probing with numb fingers until his hand closed around a shard of metal. Gritting his teeth, he wrenched it free and saw that it was a blade, a great scimitar made of black metal, broad and fell and strangely light. The crossguard was made of crimson metal, and the hilt was of black sable, frozen solid and twined with metal wire.

Ogri’s blade.

Tharok dropped it onto the snow so as to grasp it by the hilt. Strength rushed into him; heat caused his muscles and skin to prickle viciously enough that he gasped in pain. His heart surged, began to pound in his chest, and with a choking cry he sat up, the pain receding from his wounds, new energy surging into him. It was as if his body were dry tinder and the blade a living brand; its fire swept through him, dispelling the cold and gifting him with a new grasp on living. Knuckles white, he brought the blade before his face, then gazed down its length, marveling.