The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (27 page)

“You’re finally awake,” said Wrok. “It took you long enough.”

Tharok glared at him, and then saw that he had World Breaker strapped to his side. “Give that to me,” he said. “It’s mine.”

“This?” asked Wrok, looking down at World Breaker in surprise. “Yours? Krol.”

The huge kragh stepped forward, swift and sure, and before Tharok could do more than half-rise, he thundered a backhand across Tharok’s jaw, snapping his head to the side so that he fell heavily to the ground. Growling, Tharok surged back up, instinct making him whip his head to the side so as to dig his tusks into Krol’s thigh, only to receive a knee directly to the face.

He blinked. He was on his back. Blood was hot on his face. With a groan that was only part growl, he rolled to his side and pushed himself back up. The others were still standing there. Good. He had only blacked out for a moment.

“Where did you get this blade?” asked Barok, the swordsmaster, his voice quiet, intent.

“None of your damn business,” he growled.

Krol stepped forward once more, but Wrok stopped him with a wave of his hand. “We need him awake if he’s to tell us anything. Answer the weapons master, slave. Or we’ll get our answers through other means.”

Tharok rose to his full height and pushed back his shoulders. None of them was wearing the circlet. That meant they’d not discovered its true value. Good. “I pulled it out of your mother’s ass,” he said, staring Wrok full in the eye. “Slowly. She doesn’t like it when I rush.”

Toad brayed laughter, slapping his knees, and Krol’s face flushed dark. Not waiting for Wrok’s command, he surged forward and drew his hand back to smash in Tharok’s face—which was exactly what Tharok had known he’d do. Stupid Krol. With difficulty he ducked under the punch and drew the chain around the kragh’s body as he kicked his feet out from under him. He got the chain up and around Krol’s massive neck and turned to make his demands…

Only to feel the point of a blade against the side of his neck. Tharok froze and turned to look up the length of naked steel at where Barok was standing. How Barok had moved fast enough to get behind him, he had no idea. He’d have sworn it was impossible, but there he stood, the weapons master’s eyes like pinpoints as he stared down at Tharok, his brow furrowed with focus.

“Release him, you stinking pile of filth!” roared Wrok, and having no option, the cruel tip of the blade pushing into his neck, Tharok did so, unwinding the chain so that Krol jerked away, coughing and cursing.

“Now, it looks like you need a lesson in your new station. Drop him, and then string him up.” Barok nodded, and before the chained kragh could move, brained him with a lightning blow with the pommel of his sword.

Tharok fell. The last thing he saw was Maur’s flat, contemplative gaze.

The world was rocking slowly back and forth. Tharok’s head felt swollen to twice its normal size, the skin taut over his cheeks and forehead, so tender he felt it might split open. Groaning, he opened his eyes and saw that the world was upside down. No, he was hanging from his feet. He was on the outskirts of the camp and his body was pasted with rotten fruit, which also lay about his head. He’d been used for sport, and with that realization he growled, unable to control his ever-ready rage. But he was too tired, in too much pain to hold on to his anger for long, and with a groan he allowed his head to drop and his eyes to close.

Wrok had World Breaker. He would use it to his own ends, cement his leadership over the Red River tribe, and with his new power would draw other clans in the area to join his. Tharok’s father, Grakor, had been Wrok’s only true opposition. Grakor had led too many successful raids into the lowlands for Wrok, old and unable to fight, to contest. For years Wrok had watched and waited for his chance to exert his dominance. Tharok’s father had been powerful but feared. No one would help the sole survivor of the Gray Smoke tribe now that he was gone. Tharok was on his own.

“Would it help if I stood on my own head?” Tharok opened his eyes to see Toad standing before him. “We could then at least pretend that the whole world had gone mad and only you and I stayed sane.”

“What do you want, Toad?”

“Me? What, more than a tale or two? You know my role, my obligations. I must keep them entertained or they’ll cast me off a cliff and save the food for someone worthier. So, come, have a heart. Tell me how you came upon the sword. Did you venture up to the Valley of the Dead, where Ogri is said to sleep?”

“Go screw yourself, Toad, and tell Wrok where he can shove it too.”

Toad frowned, pantomiming sadness. “Tharok, Tharok, your harsh words will get you killed. You’re already a slave, and I think your skin is already lightening. If you keep this up, Wrok will sell you to the Tragon, and they’ll either torture you to death or sell you to the humans. And what do you think they would do with such a mighty highland kragh? Hmm?”

Tharok closed his eyes. He hadn’t expected to come this far. He was strung up, still badly hurt, without friend or ally. It was as grim, if not worse a situation than the one he had escaped from the night before. If only he had the circlet, he might be able to think of something. But as it was…

“You want a tale?” He opened his eyes. “I’ll tell you how I got the sword, by my clan’s honor, if you do me one favor.”

“What kind of favor is that, mighty Tharok?” asked Toad, sidling closer but carefully staying out of arm’s reach.

“Bring me something. It was my family’s. It would give me comfort.”

“Bring you something? A joke! You might as well ask that I free you and slit my own throat while I’m at it.”

“Fine,” said Tharok, closing his eyes once more. “I’ll tell the tale to Maur. I’m sure she’d appreciate the knowledge.”

“Maur?” Toad sounded outraged. “And throw a perfectly great tale away? She would butcher it in the telling. She’d ruin it all. No, no no no. Tell me, tell me. I’ll tell it so that you are a hero, and perhaps it will buy you some favor amongst the tribe. Tell me, Tharok, not that meddling wise woman.”

Tharok opened one eye. “Bring me my trinket and I’ll tell all.”

“Trinket. What trinket? What is it, then?”

“What I was wearing when they found me.” Suddenly Tharok stiffened with fear. What if it had fallen off as he fell? What if it was lost in the mountains somewhere? “Bring me the iron circle I was wearing on my head. It was my mother’s. Bring it to me and I’ll tell you everything.”

Toad pursed his wide mouth, closed one eye and squinted at Tharok. “Metal circle. Well, you can’t do much with that. Can’t kill somebody with it. I suppose you could break it in two and jab someone with the point. Hmm. I’ll tell you what: I’ll go take a look, see if I can find it. If it seems harmless, I’ll bring it. Agreed?”

Again Tharok bit his tongue. What if the damn Toad put it on? He was already too clever by half. Give him that clarity of thought and Tharok would have no chance. He almost told Toad to not wear it, almost ordered him to promise to not put it on his head, but some low cunning saved him. Ordering Toad to not wear it was as good a way as any to guarantee that he would. So, instead, he just closed his eyes and nodded. “Fine, but hurry. I’ve a mind to tell Maur if she passes by.”

Toad hissed and ran away. Tharok watched him go, disappearing behind the first hut. He had no idea what the circlet might tell him to do, but it was better than waiting for Wrok and Krol to come back for more answers.

Half an hour passed. Tharok blacked out several times, only to awaken with his head pounding with the worst headache he’d ever suffered. His tongue was swollen to the point where he couldn’t swallow, and it was only belatedly that he realized he couldn’t feel anything below his knees. He hung there, hands two feet from the ground, and wondered if he could climb the chain to the branch overhead. Looking up, he saw that it was some ten yards up to the branch. Right now he couldn’t even curl up to touch his feet.

He heard the sound of footsteps, and he looked up, expecting Toad. Instead, he saw Maur approaching, her aunt Krilla behind her. Their red hair glinted like the embers of a dying fire, and their square jaws and flat eyes set his pulse to racing. These were the real leaders of the tribe, the wise women who saw through the mysteries and advised Wrok as to what the proper course of action should be.

“Maur-krya,” he said, choosing the honorific. It wouldn’t hurt, and anyway, thinking of the circlet had put him in a crafty mood.

“Tharok,” she said, stopping some five paces from him and crossing her arms. Krilla stopped a merciful eight paces away. She was as ugly as a drowned goat that had been left to bloat in the sun—and she was the only woman Tharok had ever seen best Krol in an arm-wrestling match.

“You’ve come to ask about the sword,” he said, not liking the silence.

Maur studied him, generous lips pursed, the nubs of her feminine tusks barely breaking past her lips. “No. It doesn’t matter where you found it, not now that Wrok possesses it. What I want to know is your version of what happened in the Jorin Valley when your clan was attacked. I’ve heard from Wrok, from Krol, even from several Tragon kragh themselves. But you’re the first of the White Smoke tribe I’ve had a chance to speak to, and the women’s circle would know your side of the tale.”

Tharok closed his eyes and snorted. “My father always said that the winners write history. My tribe is lost. What does it matter now what happened?”

“It matters, fool, because the truth has weight, and we don’t like how Wrok is dancing to the Tragons’ song. So, speak up, or Krilla will tear off your manhood and feed it to you.”

“I’ve heard that’s her usual way of mating.” Tharok grinned and opened one eye. Krilla, however, did not charge forward, as he had thought she might. “You’re smarter than Krol; I’ll give you that.”

“That’s not saying much,” said Krilla. “You males are all equally dumb.”

Tharok shrugged. “I won’t argue that. But, fine, I’ll tell you what happened if you cut me down.”

“Tell me what happened, or I’ll cut you until you do.”

Tharok stared into Maur’s gray eyes and knew that she would.

“Alright. Here is the truth of what happened. My father received word that the Tragon kragh wanted our entire tribe and the Red River tribe to join them in a raid to the north. They promised a good cut of the animals and foods from a wealthy caravan that was making its way through the Saragan Pass.”

Tharok closed his eyes and tried to quiet the pounding headache. “My father was suspicious, allied as he is—was—to the Orlokor tribe to the south, but he thought it worth investigating. He took our clan to meet with the Tragon, but we were ambushed on the neutral meeting ground, and though some escaped, most of my family were killed.” Tharok paused, examining the words. So much pain expressed in so simple a manner. “I escaped. The Tragon launched attacks on the other Gray Smoke clans and seized the women’s camp. My tribe was destroyed.”

Maur stood silently in thought, one arm laid beneath her breasts, the other hand stroking her chin as she gazed at nothing.

“Wrok has given us a large batch of shaman stone,” said Krilla in a deep rumble.

“And now a fancy new sword to match his ambitions,” said Maur, shaking her head. “I sense war on the horizon.”

Tharok opened his mouth to ask them about the shaman stone, but they had already turned their backs and begun to walk away. He needed to escape. He needed a way out of this mess, to escape and head down to the lowland Orlokor tribe that infested the southern slopes of the mountain range, lowland kragh that they were. His father had sworn himself blood brother to their warlord, a squat, thick-bellied kragh by the name of Porloc who ruled over the endless thousands of Orlokor. They were the mightiest tribe there was, ever since his father had helped Porloc smash the Hrakar to the east so many years ago. If he could escape and make his way down to the Orlokor, he could present them with his grievance, and then… But that was as far as his plan went. He couldn’t envision more than that.

Frustration made his headache pulse. He needed the circlet.

Another span of time passed, and for a while he drifted on an ocean of turbulent pain, barely aware of the world. Something tickled his nose—a fly landing on it—and he clumsily swept a hand past his face. It was tickled again and he opened one eye to see Toad standing just before him, a feather in his hand. With a roar he swiped at the light-skinned runt, but Toad laughed and fell back, landing on his back and clapping his feet together in glee.

“Human clap, human clap, this is how the humans clap!”

Tharok growled and flexed his hands with a savage yearning to snap Toad’s neck, but the little kragh seemed unaffected. He sat up, looking at Tharok from one eye and then the other. “Are you mad at me, mighty Tharok? Has Toad offended you? Well, perhaps you can find a way to forgive me.” And he drew the iron circlet from behind his back.

Tharok went still. “Give it to me.”

“For the tale, the full tale, with every detail that belongs within the tale,” said Toad, climbing back awkwardly to his feet.

“Everything,” said Tharok. “I’ll tell all. Every detail you want. Now give it.”

Toad held it out, teasingly close, and then drew it back. “I saw you speaking with Maur. You wouldn’t have gone and told her already, would you?”

Tharok laughed. “She doesn’t give a damn for the sword. She wanted to hear my father’s end.”