The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (38 page)

“I am Tharok, son of Grakor, the last of my clan and tribe, but here, with World Breaker in my hands, with Ogri’s blood in my veins and his blessing on my head and sword arm, I stand before you as the Red River’s new warlord. I have proven myself in trial by combat, and I say to you now, if you follow me, I will lead you to glory, to victory heaped upon victory, so that the name of the Red River will be forever linked to the greatest deeds and riches. If you follow me, you will join me in creating new legends. We shall forge a new kragh empire! We shall rise in power and leave behind us a trail of broken bodies, defeated enemies, burned cities and ruined lands!”

Many of the kragh around him gave voice to their pleasure, stamping their broad feet and pounding their fists on their chests, shaking their heads from side to side and snapping their jaws open and closed. A third of them, however, did not. Those were the kragh most closely allied with Wrok’s clan, two or three clans that had formed the core of the Red River under Wrok and supported his rule. Tharok’s father’s cruel leadership of the Gray Smoke tribe was fresh in their memories, and they were clearly loath to crown his son over them so soon.

Maur stepped forward, several other crimson-haired kragh of the women’s circle behind her, and the clans stilled. She stood before Tharok and studied him, her broad cheekbones and flat eyes reflecting the fiery light. With a great fur wrapped around her shoulders and neck but little more than a loincloth below, she looked savage and beautiful, yet contemplative as she assessed him. Tonight was the night for mating, thought Tharok. Maur would be feeling the instinct as much as any other.

Finally, she turned to the crowd. “The women’s circle finds in Tharok a worthy warlord for the Red River tribe. We support his claim, proven by blood, and by the sword he now holds in his hand.”

Tharok resisted letting out a sigh of relief. Had Maur ruled against him, his followers would have easily been cut in half, leaving him wide open to a number of challenges. But with her and the women’s circle behind him, his claim had become vastly more solid.

The shaman, Golden Crow, hobbled before Tharok and stared up at him. It was a disconcerting sight, looking into the shaman’s withered and dry eye sockets, and the ancient kragh, older even than Wrok had been, pulled out a chunk of shaman stone and worked it between his fingers as he whispered incantations. When he deemed the moment right, he popped the shaman stone into his mouth and chewed on it while everyone waited in silence.

“Ogri has clearly blessed this warrior,” he said, his tone grave and surprisingly deep for his wiry figure as he used his avalanche voice. “Whispers come to me from those who saw Tharok climb the Dragon’s Breath. He speaks true! Ogri himself blesses his rise. He would not allow Tharok to stand with World Breaker in his hands were he telling anything but the truth.” His words rung in the air, and the very nature of the silence changed in texture. “The spirits have blessed him, and through him the Red River tribe. They have sent forth one of Ogri’s blood to lead and unite us. Tharok is the chieftain of the Red River.”

The silence continued for several heartbeats more, and then, as one, the kragh began to roar and stamp their feet, the words of the wise woman and the shaman cementing what the trial by combat had already told them. Tharok lifted his arms, World Breaker gleaming in the firelight, and turned slowly so as to stare all the kragh in the face. It was clear that some were cheering with more gusto than others, that some were forcing themselves to participate, despite the overwhelming vote of confidence given to him.

Tharok lowered World Breaker. Only the vitality of the sword was keeping him on his feet now. But he needed to do one thing more.

“Kragh of the Red River, I am your chieftain. My clan is scattered, my father is dead, but I stand before you ready to rule, to lead you to greatness. My first act will be one of blood. Bring me Orok and Urok.”

Several large kragh men stepped forward and gripped the twin brothers, who had already begun to fade back into the ranks, looking to make their escape. They strove to cast off the grips that held them tight, but were brought stumbling and cursing before Tharok. He looked into their faces, already darkening with their growing authority, tusks lengthening, younger images of Krol.

“Blood of Wrok, you are of his clan and share his spirit amongst you. Your fortune was tied to his. Your power came from his rule. You gave him strength, supported his plans, and benefited from his victories.”

Orok and Urok stood very still and tensed.

Tharok lifted his blade. “This sword is called World Breaker, for with it Ogri broke the world. He did not cut off the tops of mountains or cut between the peaks to form deeper valleys, as is said, but with this very sword he broke the world of kragh and men. He shattered tradition, he broke rules, he remade the kragh into one grand tribe that ranged from horizon to horizon. It was called World Breaker, for before its blade the old world could not stand.”

Orok let out a cry and threw himself backward, trying to rip free, but the three kragh who had hold of him held fast. They drew him back, and then one kicked out his feet from under him so that he fell to his knees. Urok had enough dignity to lower himself, though he never took his eyes from Tharok.

“Wrok’s death should free you, and by tradition your clan should be allowed to leave the Red River and join whichever tribe you desire. But you killed my clan. You betrayed us to lowlanders. You helped Wrok destroy my tribe. Because of you, the Gray Smoke are no more. So with World Breaker in my hand, I say tradition ends here. Tonight.”

Tharok took up World Breaker, and with one sweep took off Urok’s head, severing it so cleanly that he went on kneeling for several seconds before finally toppling over and crashing to the ground.

Orok stilled and shook his head. “You can’t do this.”

Tharok didn’t respond. Instead, he firmed his grip and backhanded the blade across Orok’s throat, taking his head off as well.

The gathered clans stood still, eyes locked on him and the dead twins at his feet. He stared at the six kragh who had held them only moments ago. “When Krol returns, I want him taken and brought to me. Do not explain why. Simply do this. You six are to watch for him. I know your faces, I know your clans, and I hold you responsible. Is that clear?”

The six kragh looked at each other, brows raised, and then as one they nodded and stepped back into the crowd.

Tharok knew he wouldn’t last much longer, but he had to look strong until the end. He turned to regard the crowd. “I wield World Breaker. Mark me. We shall break worlds together. I will shatter traditions and end how things have been done. The only thing I hold sacred is uniting our tribes. All who oppose me will die.”

He came to a stop in front of Golden Crow and lowered himself to one knee before the old kragh, who reached out and placed his hand on Tharok’s shoulder. “I ask that your insight and knowledge of the spirits be put to great use in the service of the Red River tribe. Will you serve me, Golden Crow-krya, even as I respect you and do you honor?”

The old shaman nodded. “I will, warlord.”

Tharok stood with difficulty. He turned to Maur and the women who stood with her. “I recognize the women’s circle, and would meet with them tomorrow. No action may be taken without their counsel, no move made without their guidance. Would you meet with me tomorrow, all of you, so that we may discuss the future of the Red River tribe?”

Maur grimaced, but there was wry amusement in her eyes; his actions thus far undercut his words, but it had been nicely said, so she nodded her consent.

Finally Tharok turned to regard them all. “Continue the celebration, for tonight marks the birth of a new era amongst the kragh. Drink, dance, laugh and fight. Find your mates, rut hard and long, so that the women may bear us strong warriors for tomorrow’s wars! The Red River tribe shall rise above them all!”

Heraised World Breaker over his head, causing it to gleam and burn, and the clans let loose a cacophony of shrill cries and roars. That was all he could manage. He lowered the sword and strode away, needing darkness, a place to collapse.

Someone ran alongside him: Toad.

“Find me a hut,” he said thickly to the little kragh. “Find me a place to sleep.”

“Wrok’s hut is currently empty,” said Toad, grinning and hopping. “Follow me. It’s not far.”

Tharok locked his eyes on the small kragh’s back and stumbled after him, passing tents, leaving the fire behind, till he reached the largest hut, smothered in the whitest goat pelts and with two braziers burning before it. Toad stepped forward to speak to a kragh of Wrok’s clan who was standing before the entrance even as Tharok blundered past the hanging goat skin and into the darkness of the hut’s interior.

He paused, spotted the great bed, and without word, without thought, strode over to it and collapsed face-first, World Breaker still clutched in his had, asleep before his face even hit the pillows.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Iskra accepted a mug of heated black tea from Jekil the undercook with a smile. The young boy blushed and quickly looked away, turning to the next in line with a slightly straighter back. Iskra moved away from the fire, holding the mug and enjoying the heat that radiated into her palms. It was a bitterly cold morning. Her people were moving lethargically, most of them wrapping their bedclothes around them as they stumbled around their small camp, talking quietly and avoiding eye contact. The mood was fragile. Nobody had slept well, and with the terror of last night’s rush gone, the direness of their situation was sinking in.

What would Erland have done? She tried to imagine him here, either up glowering on the walls or brooding by the fire, nursing wine instead of beer and planning his revenge. Somehow she couldn’t picture him amongst this rubble. He wouldn’t have allowed Mertyn to back him into this corner. More likely Mertyn would never have dared to try such a coup. But against her he’d more than dared; he’d succeeded, and now she needed to salvage the situation with what little authority she still had.

Ser Jander Wyland entered the hall, hair wet and rubbing his hands vigorously together. “I do not recommend going for a swim,” he said loudly with a grin, causing everyone to turn and stare at him. “That frigid black water does look inviting, I will concede, but I urge you to reconsider. If you value your chance of having children, stay clear!”

Several people chuckled. Jekil lifted a mug. “Some hot tea, ser?”

Jander strode over and clasped Jekil by the shoulder as he lifted the mug and drained it in one long pull. “Ah. Better than the finest Segian wine, if my Lady will pardon my saying so. Another cup, good Jekil! Our fortune rides on your tea-making services.”

Jekil grinned widely and refilled the mug. Jander took it and stepped over to where Iskra was standing. “I’d ask how you slept, my Lady, but I fear I know the answer.”

Iskra smiled. “How do you keep your spirits so high, Jander? Yours is the only smile I’ve seen since I awoke.”

“How?” He turned to consider their small camp, mug held to his lips, his other hand on his hip. He stood straight and unbowed, smelling of lake water and looking rested and well. “This is life, my Lady. The wheel of fortune lifts us up and brings us down. You must free your happiness from its vagaries. Expect nothing, and everything is a gift.” He hesitated, shrugged, them looked sidelong at her with amusement in his eyes. “Or something like that. Perhaps I’m just an irrepressible optimist. Or exhilarated by near-death experiences in freezing lakes. It’s hard to tell.”

Iskra’s smile turned into a soft laugh and she sipped her tea. It was bitter and strong, exactly what she needed. “Well, I thank the Ascendant that you’re with us.”

Jander studied her and then spoke softly. “My Lady, I know the situation is dire. Your sense of responsibility for us must be crushing. Don’t let that weight paralyze you. Everyone here looks to you for strength and leadership, not only as their lady but as a Sigean, whose soul has ascended the highest of us all. You must lead. You did well last night, giving orders, setting people in motion. You must continue that today. Keep them busy. Nothing creates tension and fear like idleness.”

She stared down into her tea as if its dark depths might provide her with answers. Two weeks—they had two weeks before Mertyn sent a force to destroy them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw people watching her. What could they accomplish in two weeks? Should they flee into the mountains and evade destruction? Live in the wilds like animals?