The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (60 page)

They passed Hrething just before noon. The trail peaked over a small rise and afforded them a view of the huddled houses. Smoke was trailing from numerous chimneys, though Tiron knew those homes to be empty. Most of Hrething had been moved to the high farms, leaving behind only a skeleton force to tend the fires and give the impression of a populated town.

Gunnvaldr was sitting on a tree stump at the edge of town, smoking his pipe, and rose to his feet at the sight of the first knights appearing over the rise. He shook his fist at the sight of Tiron. “Murderer! You’ll be rewarded for what you did when you’re thrown head-first though the Black Gate!”

The knights slowed, amused smiles on their faces, and many turned to watch Tiron’s reaction. He gave none. Shaking his head, he looked to where the trail continued up along the Erenthil. Kitan, however, stepped out of the column to confront Gunnvaldr.
Damn fool
, thought Tiron.
The plan was for him to retreat after calling out his insults.

“Ho, there, old father. Why do you accuse the good and honorable Ser Tiron of such a foul deed?”

Gunnvaldr drew himself up, quivering with outrage. It was a good performance. “Why? You should string him up from the closest tree. Traitor! Oath breaker! He slew Lady Kyferin, turned on her, and then killed all the other knights in her guard!”

Kitan turned to regard Tiron with false amazement. “All that? Well, I suppose we’ll have to give him his just rewards. But regardless of what he did, he
is
a knight. It’s a punishable offense for a commoner such as yourself to speak to him so. Ser Cunot, Ser Cunad, string this old man up by his neck. Let him serve as a warning to all who would impugn Ser Tiron’s honor.”

Tiron tightened his grip on his reins. To object would seem bizarre.

Gunnvaldr had taken a step back, eyes wide as he realized his sudden peril. The Golden Vipers stepped away from the column and began to march in his direction.

“Wait!” Tiron’s voice was harsh and cruel. Everyone turned to stare at him.

“Surely you don’t object, good Ser Tiron?” Kitan’s voice was dangerously light.

“Not at all. But it was my honor who insulted. I should be the one to avenge it.”

Kitan pursed his lips, then nodded. Cunot and Cunad stopped, and Tiron patted Biter’s neck and drew his blade. “Come here, old man. I’ll show you what happens to peasants with loose tongues.”

Gunnvaldr stared at him, fear riveting him in place. Tiron tried to walk as slowly as he could without drawing notice. Nobody could see his face now but Gunnvaldr.
Run!
he mouthed.
Go!
Gunnvaldr blinked rapidly and backed away a step, then a second, but he’d lost his chance. There was no way he could outdistance Tiron now. He was going to have to slay the old fool. He thought of the knights’ laughter around the fires the night before, and realized he couldn’t. He’d have to let Gunnvaldr go, and face the consequences.

Forgive me, Iskra.

“Enough.” The voice was rich and redolent with power. Tiron froze, then looked over his shoulder to see the white-armored Virtue stepping forward.

“Is there a problem, Ser Makaria?” Kitan’s voice barely hid his annoyance.

“There is. This man will not be hanged for speaking the truth.” Ser Makaria raised his visor and gazed coldly upon Tiron. “This knight did murder Lady Iskra and Ser Wyland both. If he cannot live with that, he should not have done the deeds.”

Ser Tiron gulped. Makaria’s gaze was as pitiless as the glare of a hawk. Even though he hadn’t committed those crimes, he still felt himself judged and found terribly wanting. Still, relief flooded through him. He sheathed his blade and nodded. “Fine. I’ve no problem with what I’ve done. After all, we both serve the same master now: Lord Laur and his goals.”

“No,” said Makaria, voice inflexible. He fairly radiated power. “I serve the Ascendant and his Grace. Our interests align with Lord Laur’s, but he is not my master.”

Tiron glanced over at Kitan, whose smile had grown sickly. “As you say, Ser Virtue.” He moved back to where Biter was standing, indifferently chewing on the grass.

“Very well,” said Kitan. “We’ve greater tasks to attend to. Let’s be on our way. March!”

He rejoined the line, and Tiron began to stride forward once more, but even as he walked he could feel Makaria’s harsh gaze upon his back.

He felt a grim sense of satisfaction. Let the Virtue judge him when Iskra and Jander stepped into sight, hale and ready for battle.

The climb up alongside the Erenthil took up the remainder of the day, so it was nearing dusk when they finally reached the banks of Lake Mythgræfen. The Hold looked spectral and ghostly on its remote central island, steeped in shadows and with a ring of ravens circling about its keep. A cold wind was scything off the waters, and more than one knight shuddered and pulled his cloak closer around his frame.

Kitan stepped up alongside Tiron and frowned, jutting out his lower jaw. “What a miserable place. Seems a complete waste of stone and lives.”

“That it is,” said Tiron. “It’s claimed more Kyferin blood than any other enemy can boast. A curse, I’d call it. A curse nobody understands.”

“Madness,” said Kitan. “I’d pull every stone into the lake and shatter the Raven’s Gate so as to remove all temptation for future folly.” He hawked and spat. “Let’s get this over with. Quick march!”

They hurried around the lake, boots crunching on wet sand and gravel. The sun sank at last behind the far western peaks, and the colors grew subdued and sullen, the world bathed in slate blues, velvety grays, dark forest greens and black, inky shadows. Tiron’s gut began to tighten as they rounded the final curve to the causeway. The white stones seemed almost luminous in the falling dusk, the water lapping about the lower rocks. All was silent. No lights were burning in the distant Hold. No sounds filtered across the waters.

“Abandoned,” said Ser Dirske. “Nobody there but corpses, I reckon. You think the survivors took to the hills?”

“If they did, they were fools,” said Tiron. “Not one of them knows how to survive a night in this wilderness. No, I’ll wager they’re hunkered down like mice, terrified and taking scant comfort from a small fire in the main hall. Grief and fear will have undone them.”

Dirske nodded and smoothed down his mustache in an attempt to hide his own fear.

Kitan leaped up onto a small boulder by the lake’s edge. “All right, this is how the next ten minutes is going to proceed. We’re going to cross that causeway at a run. No war cries. Not a sound. When we reach the island, fifteen men will slide to the left, fifteen to the right. Thirty will proceed through the main gate into the courtyard. The remaining twenty will stay on the causeway itself to prevent any escapes. Kill all that you find, except for Kethe Kyferin. You’ll recognize her by her red hair and her mulish eyes. You can rough her up, but bring her to me alive. Beware: she’s handier with a blade than you’d think. Once we secure the island, we’ll grab our keepsakes and turn right back round. We’ll camp a half mile back down the trail. That should be far enough from this cursed place for it to not disturb our sleep.” He paused. “This isn’t a battle. This is mere housecleaning. Dirty, fast work that will see you well rewarded. Those who show the proper enthusiasm will be noted. Are we ready?”

Makaria was staring at the Hold, and for the first time Tiron saw him frown. “There is power in that castle. I can feel the world pouring into it. Even if we only face a dozen people, be careful. All is not as it seems here.” He looked up at Kitan. “Follow your plan. I’m not here to kill scullions and girls. If there is any cause for me to intervene, I’ll do so, but do not count on my help in accomplishing your task.”

The knights had been about to chorus their agreement, but now they looked uncertainly to the castle, then back to Kitan, who was fighting to control his annoyance. “As you wish, Ser Virtue. Just remember that you were sent with us to help claim the Hold for Lord Laur and the Ascendant.”

“I’ve not forgotten,” said Makaria coldly.

“Well, then,” said Kitan, raising his voice again. “Who’s ready for a quick fight, then riches and a hot bed? Let’s get this done, men. Let’s get this done.”

The men nodded, and a forest of blades was drawn, shields unslung, and helms pulled down onto mail coifs. Packs were dropped, squires busied themselves tightening straps and adjusting armor, and then Kitan stepped forward. His blue cloak billowed out around him, his azure armor gleaming softly in the dusk. He looked like the consummate knight, thought Tiron. The thought made him want to spit.

Kitan raised his sword high. Everyone held their breath. Then, turning, he dropped it so as to point it at the Hold, and broke into a run. Tiron felt the need to yell swelling amongst the ranks, the need to give voice to their anger and fear and hunger. But they bit it down and instead ran forward in silence, the rocks and gravel of the causeway crunching beneath their heavy steps. Tiron ran at the front, Kitan by his side. It was a good distance, but they covered it in what seemed to be the blink of an eye. Breath rasping in his throat, Tiron led the knights onto the island. As they had been commanded, men split left and right to surround the walls, disappearing into the undergrowth. Tiron ran past the twisted oak tree and into the courtyard.

It was empty but for the ethereal ash trees. Moving slowly, allowing Kitan’s men to bunch up around him, he pointed to the storeroom entrance with his blade, beside which a single lantern was burning. Kitan nodded and allowed him to lead the way.

Tiron moved to the door and lifted the lantern from its hook. Fear arose in his chest. The darkness of the doorway seemed as forbidding and dangerous as the Black Gate itself. He knew he couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t give Kitan reason to doubt, to question. Taking a deep breath, he strode through the doorway and lifted the lantern high.

A massive pile of apples gleamed wetly in the center of the room. There had to be hundreds of them, the few remaining crimson fruit that Lady Kyferin had brought and the twisted little crabapples from the Hrethings’ store. The whole lot of them glistened with honey. Two dozen small figures had been feasting on them, but they had frozen and were staring at Tiron, eyes narrowed against the light. Pale, albino little monsters, with hunched shoulders like miniature blacksmiths, lank white hair like that of drowned folk, noses protuberant like potatoes and mouths little more than gashes filled with sharp teeth. Their golden eyes glittered as if filled with their own inner flame.

“The Ascendant protect us!” Kitan had stepped up next to him, others crowding in behind. Tiron drew his arm back and hurled the lantern into the far corner, where it smashed and fell into a barrel filled with oil.

The barrel exploded. The darkness was hungrily consumed by a billowing ball of fire that roared out with enough force to send the naugrim rolling. The wave of heat baked the sweat on Tiron’s face and drove him back and down onto one knee, an arm raised to protect his face.

Yells and roars surrounded him. Gathering his wits, Tiron rose to his feet and plowed forward through the madness of chittering, furious naugrim. He nearly rolled his ankle as he stepped onto an apple, regaining his balance just as a naugrim suddenly blinked into existence in midair before him and crashed into his chest. Tiron crashed onto his back, the small demon tearing at his chain with hooked claws that cut through the metal as if it were packed dirt. Tiron roared and slammed his elbow into the creature’s head, sat up and lifted it bodily off him and tossed it away. It blinked out of existence before hitting the ground, but he saw another half-dozen converging on him. The others were throwing themselves at Kitan and his knights. Rising, Tiron ran to the secret door, tore it open and stepped through. When he turned to pull it shut, he saw Kitan and his men yelling and flailing as ever more naugrim swarmed out onto them.

Grinning despite himself, he hurried down the spiral stairs and out into the Gate chamber where Iskra, Asho, Brocuff and the eight remaining Kyferin guards were waiting. Audsley was watching from a far chamber, looking terrified.

“Success?” Asho stepped forward, hand on the hilt of his new sword.

Tiron was glaring at Iskra. “What the Hell are you doing here?”

She raised her chin haughtily. It was still shocking to see her with a shorn head. If anything, it made her all the more striking. “You expected me to hide?”

Tiron tore off his helm. “There are men upstairs with swords looking to cut off your head!”

She took a sharp step forward. “My husband would not have hidden. Neither shall I.”

“You are
not
Enderl bloody Kyferin.”

“Enough!” Iskra’s eyes blazed in her pale face. “These are my people! They fight for me!” She took a shuddering breath. “I will not hide. Perhaps I cannot wield a sword, but I will
not
hide. Now. The naugrim. Did our plan work?”

“Aye,” said Tiron sourly. “Too well, perhaps. They’ve gone mad.”

“Good,” said Asho, face grim. “Five more minutes and we’ll head up. With a little luck, we’ll be the hammer to Ser Wyland’s anvil.”

“Yeah, sure.” Tiron turned back to Iskra. “But we’ve got a problem.”

Brocuff stepped up. He was wearing a heavy chain over a suit of leather so thick that Tiron doubted a battle ax would be able to cut through it. “What? More men than anticipated?”