The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2)

by Phil Tucker

  "Slowly," whispered Mæva. "Move around it."

  Kethe nodded. It was taller than she was, deep in the chest, its head hanging down and forward. It nearly filled the rocky passage, but by inching around it and keeping her back pressed to the wall, she was able to get by. Asho followed suit, then Mæva, and soon they were scrambling away, all of them shooting terrified glances over their shoulders to where the demon had turned to follow their ascent with its blind sockets.

  They were forced three other times to abandon their direction of ascent by these slow-moving creatures, but Kethe was glad for the extra work if it meant avoiding another fight. Her limbs were weary, her muscles exhausted, her mind overwhelmed by the horrors she had seen. She wanted nothing more than to escape, to find a safe corner on the lower slopes in which to hide and build a fire and pretend these monsters didn't exist, roaming perpetually up here in the range.

  "Stop."

  Asho's hand clamped onto her shoulder, his fingers squeezing so hard she almost yelped. Instead, she frowned and looked in the same direction he was staring.

  Her blood ran cold, and she fought the urge to shrink against him. Something that put the other demons to shame had stepped into view above them - not in the paths of the maze, but moving over them atop the walls. It stood perhaps fifteen or twenty feet in height, and had four human legs that extended spider-like from its pelvis. Four arms extended from its shoulders, and its head looked like a flower carved from stone, a mottled gray orchid, perhaps. It held a mess of chains among its four hands, and from each descended a length of chain that terminated in a vast mace. No, she realized; not a mace, but rather a dozen half-moon ax blades pressed together at the haft so that their blades extended in all directions. Each was the size of a barrel.

  The demon moved with insectile precision, its leaden skin gleaming dully in the afternoon light, its muscles striating under its skin as it moved. It had no eyes. Kethe couldn't make sense of its head. But it was hunting, she knew. It had stopped atop a high column of rock, its bare feet somehow holding onto the rock surface like a fly's, and was turning its ghastly head from side to side.

  "It senses us," said Mæva, her voice flat with fear. "I can feel it probing through my magic like fingers pushing through bull rushes."

  Kethe's throat was parched. She couldn't even swallow. "What do we do? Fight it?" The thought made her want to laugh.

  "This way," said Asho.

  Kethe had to admire how calm he sounded. Either that, or he was going mad. Still, he turned away and led them down a side cleft, moving quickly but not sprinting.

  "I can feel something," he said. "This way."

  Kethe didn't want to lose sight of the demon. It cocked its head in another direction, and then began to walk down the wall of the passage up above them like a spider, only the chains and the ax-heads obeying the force of gravity. It was coming toward them, she knew. It had their scent. Her stomach spasmed with fear, and she backed away and nearly tripped. She should go, should follow Asho. But the thought of losing sight of that creature was even more frightening. To not know where it was, but to know that it was closing in on them...

  Mæva grabbed her by the arm and hauled her along. She stumbled again and clanged her sword against the passage wall. The sound was deafeningly loud. She mumbled an apology and felt a fool. Asho was surging ahead with a purpose, and something about his focus pricked through her fear and brought her back to herself. Shaking off Mæva's hand, she hurried over the rock-strewn ground and rounded the corner to find Asho crouched near a large crack in the ground.

  It was a ragged tear, but wide enough for them to squeeze into. "You mean for us to hide?"

  "No," he said. He held his hand out to the crack, fingers fanned wide, as if he felt heat. "Can't you sense it? The power flooding out?"

  Kethe stepped closer. She could sense something, but she didn't know what it was. A heaviness, maybe. An oppressive outflow against which she felt like squinting. "What is it?"

  "Magic," whispered Asho. "It's welling up here like - like blood from a fresh wound."

  Mæva crouched down beside him and extended her hands. "Yes. He's right." Then she looked to Ashurina. "Is it the entrance to the Black Gate?"

  "I don't know," said Asho. "Perhaps?"

  Kethe turned to scan the tops of the walls around them. The sky was light between their ragged edges, but she knew they had only a couple of hours left till nightfall. The thought of running through these mountains at night with that demon hunting them made her want to scream. "Do we go in?"

  "In?" Mæva sounded as if she wanted to laugh and sob at the same time. "You can't imagine what -"

  The sound of chain links tinkled through the air. Kethe's gut tightened, and she gripped her sword tight. "It's close. We either run, or we go in."

  "In," said Asho.

  He sheathed his blade, unshouldered his pack, and tossed it into the crack. It tumbled and disappeared from sight. He then sat and swung his legs in, and as he did so, Kethe could see that the crack descended at an angle. Edging forward, he leaned back onto his elbows, then squirmed onto his stomach, wiggled, and was gone.

  Mæva cursed. She sat, Ashurina fluttering down beside her, and then she too disappeared.

  Kethe stood alone in the passage. Her heart was thudding like the beat of Elon's hammer as he shaped a blade in his forge. She knew she had to sheathe her blade, unshoulder her pack. But she couldn't move.

  Where was the demon? Would it strike the moment her sword was in her scabbard?

  She could barely breathe. She looked back and forth, whipping her head from side to side, knowing that the demon would spring upon her the moment she looked away.

  I am a Kyferin, she said to herself. Embrace your fear. Scorn it.

  A madness seized her. A desire to hold her ground, to fight the demon alone, to laugh in its terrifying face and let it tear her to pieces. That would be a warrior's death. A death her father would approve of.

  She heard the sound of chains again, louder this time. The demon was almost upon her. Kethe thought then of her mother. Of her little brother. Of Asho, awaiting her below. Biting back a cry, she unslung her pack, tossed it in after Mæva, and slithered into the crack, sword still in hand, the sharp rock sending flashes of pain through her body as she scraped down over it. At the very last she turned and glanced up at the dying daylight, watched it recede as she slithered and fell, and then she could see it no more.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Crokuk escort surrounded Nakrok and marched out of the Red River camp, returning to the great mass of waiting warriors who had watched from without. The Red River tribe stood stupefied, and slowly hundreds of eyes turned to stare at Tharok. He could feel their allegiance slipping, the ties that held the clans to him breaking.

  Moving calmly, he stood atop a large rock so that he could gaze out over the few hundred who had crowded in around him.

  "Brothers and sisters," he said. "I am your warlord. You know how I came amongst you. You know what sword I carried. You know I have a special mission, and our tribe a special destiny." His words rolled out over them, rich and deep and powerful. "I am your warlord, but I do not lead you alone. I am guided by the wise, our elders, our shaman and wise women. So I say to you now, I wish to lead our tribe to the Dragon's Tear and send out a summoning for all to gather in the ruins of our most ancient temple. I do so to learn who will support us in the following war, and whom we can mark as our enemies. And I tell you this! Just as I emerged from the heights with the greatest weapon we kragh have ever wielded, I shall do so again with another, one that will terrify our foes and make us invincible in combat. All that I ask is for the blessings of our shaman, for the guidance of our wise women, and your faith that I will deliver."

  The Red River began to talk amongst each other, and then Golden Crow hobbled up onto a log, his hand on Krilla's shoulder. Silence spread out around him like ripples, and he chewed on his lips before speaking.

  "I have been the Red R
iver shaman for longer than you can remember. The spirits do not support Tharok. They do not whisper to me that he is our chosen warlord." Immediately curses and heated words spilled forth, but Golden Crow raised his arms to quiet them. "But neither do they tell me to remove him, to cast him down. They tell me to wait. They tell me to give him time. To follow him, for there is the chance for much war, much victory, if he can but prove true. Let the Grand Convocation be his trial. Then we shall see."

  The heated words subsided into mutterings, and then eyes turned toward where Maur stood with the ancient kragh woman Iskrolla and the other wise women, arms crossed, faces closed.

  "We agree with the shaman," said Maur. "We shall see what this son of Grakor delivers. He wishes to put everything on the line. Let him. Come the Grand Convocation, we shall have our judgment."

  The kragh began to disperse, those words being sufficient to maintain the status quo, and Tharok hopped down from his boulder. Jutting out his lower jaw, he promptly sat down and began to think. Events were not turning out as he had planned. His moves made sense, they were logical, yet he was losing support even as he made his gains. Where was he failing? He had become too cerebral, he decided. The very intelligence that was allowing him to strategize on such a grand scale was blinding him to the basic elements of kragh society and its needs.

  Looking about him, he saw the Red River go about their business of breaking down the camp, and he felt isolated, almost ignored. He needed to connect with them as a kragh, to step down from the heights and affirm his bonds with tribe, clan, and circle.

  He took hold of the circlet and removed it.

  A vast rushing sound like that of a hundred thousand gales roared away from him and up to the mountain peaks, leaving him swaying and blinking as ponderous weights fell from him, as entire sections of his mind closed down, and he was left alone, himself at last.

  He frowned. What had the problem been?

  His kragh didn't seem to like him. He had insulted the Crokuk, and had then asked the Red River to follow him anyway. He had called a Grand Convocation... The thought made him shudder. Only the greatest and most renowned of warlords ever put forth such a summons, and only in times of great need, like when the Orlokor had summoned the highland tribes to fight for them against the Hrakar back in his father's day. Why was he summoning the tribes now? For what dire reason? He couldn't remember his reasoning.

  Rising to his feet, Tharok yawned and rolled his head on his neck, cracking the bones. By the peaks, it was good to stop thinking for a bit. His mind felt worn out, and his neck was stiff. His body ached in a manner that it had never done before. All his plans were slipping through his fingers. Why was he calling the Grand Convocation?

  He slipped the circlet back on, and the world spun. A howling tempest arose within his skull, scouring away all fog and foolishness, and when things settled, his mind was clear, vast, crystal cold and precise. His challenges were clear. Calling the Grand Convocation was but a ploy that on its face was doomed to fail, but he would make of it a chance to reap huge and immediate success by deploying a weapon that would soon be furnished to him.

  Tharok removed the circlet once more and sank down onto a rock with a groan. He held his head until it cleared. It was filled now with the familiar hunger and primal urges of his kind. He had to show them he was the toughest and wisest kragh. His father had been the warlord, but his father had been hated. Golden Crow had said it right: he couldn't act alone. He needed to embed himself with the Red River. He needed to become fully a part of the tribe, blood of its blood.

  He needed to take a woman.

  Tharok growled deep in his throat, and then laughed. Of course taking a woman to be his mate hadn't occurred to him while he was wearing the circlet. His brilliant self was blind to such basic kragh needs. He looked down at the circlet with derision. So brilliant, but so dumb. He would find the best female, one full of fire and strength, and take her as his mate, and in so doing begin the creation of his personal clan. He would have children, create blood brothers. He would become Red River in full, and thus earn the tribe's acceptance.

  Of course he couldn't just go and drag a female into his tent. He would have to wait till the next seasonal mating gathering. The last had been when he had killed Wrok and ascended to warlord. The next would be in a little over two months. After the Convocation, unfortunately. Then, they would find time between bouts of conquering the Tragon to settle down for a few days and rut.

  The idea stirred something agreeable in the base of his belly, and he rubbed his hands together.

  Tharok rose and marched back to his hut, which was being struck down by several other kragh to whom the duty fell. Nok was amongst them, making sure the work was done well, and Shaya was seated to one side, pale but alive. Tharok moved into the small group, clapped a large kragh on the shoulder, and took the load that a woman had been about to ease down. He let out a mock growl and laughed as she growled right back. He lost himself in the work, enjoying the sensation of sunlight on his skin and the heat that the work engendered in his core.

  Soon they were on the road, and once more they moved ahead of the Crokuk. But this time Tharok moved at a slower pace, allowing the whole of both tribes to move together. Nakrok hurled some insults his way, but Tharok simply laughed and raised two fingers at him, the sign of an inverted peak. Nakrok blinked at the crudeness of the gesture, and the kragh around Tharok laughed and mimicked it back at the Crokuk. Nakrok soon learned to leave him alone.

  They walked all day till Tharok called a break for lunch, and they rested by the head of a great waterfall, the thundering plumes of water unraveling as they fell as mist into the basin below. The two tribes settled down where they had stopped, drawing dried meat from their packs along with bags of tubers and fried cakes.

  Tharok walked amongst the Red River, pausing to squat and exchange words with each clan. He asked the names of the children, listened to the warriors as they discussed their predictions for the battles to come, and to older kragh as they advised him on the protocols of a Grand Convocation. He watched the single kragh females, grinning at them to show the size of his tusks, and when he was done he arose from the last group and saw a caravan pulling to a stop at the back of their camp, a great stone troll standing alongside it, a hammer as tall as Tharok held over its shoulder.

  The arrival of the caravan stirred the interest of the kragh, who stood and turned to regard it. The human seated high on the caravan's front stood up as well and called out in a bold and striking voice, "Greetings, travelers on the road! My wagon moves slowly because of all the expensive goods I carry. Who would line up and buy some of it from me so as to lighten my load? Come! Don't mind Grax. He has already eaten ten kragh this morning. Surely he won't want more. Come, come!"

  Tharok placed his hands on his belt and watched. He had wanted to speak to the trader, he recalled, though he didn't remember why.

  Grax was ponderous and powerful, and the Crokuk kragh milling around the caravan gave him wide berth. The human, however, was all movement and charm, opening up the side of his wagon so that it formed a display for the weapons contained within. Kragh crowded four deep, roaring and pointing at different weapons, demanding to touch and test, but they were denied unless they showed coin.

  Tharok moved forward. None of the highlanders had approached the human. Their kind had a natural distrust for human vendors and traders, for their honeyed words and backstabbing ways.

  After some fifteen minutes Nakrok gave word that his tribe should prepare to move out. The human trader began to pack up his goods, clearly having done some good business, humming loudly to himself as Grax looked on. Tharok took the opportunity to approach, slipping on the circlet as he went.

  "Interested in a purchase, my good kragh?" asked the human. "I know you. We meet again."

  "We follow a similar path. Ours takes us higher into the Peaks. We leave the Chasm Walk in a day. Where does your route lead you?"

  "As I said, I'm also going highe
r into the peaks. I'm going to release Grax into the area known as the Wyvern's Hide and recruit a new stone troll before descending to the northern plains. There, I'll do a little business with the Tragon."

  "The Tragon are the enemy of the Orlokor."

  "The wheel turns, the stars spin in their constellations, things change yet remain the same. I have no political aspirations, and trade with all. Do you object?"

  "No. But I would have further words with you tonight where we make camp. It would be to your great profit."

  "What kind of business are we talking about?" asked the human, pausing in his activities to look over at Tharok.

  "Two words. War profiteering."

  "Two words, eh?" The human stroked his chin. "Those two words ring nicely in my ear. There's always good coin to be made during a war. My name is Gregory. I'll find your camp tonight."

  "Good. I am Tharok. Find me amongst the Red River."

  So saying, Tharok turned and strode back to his tribe, pulling the circlet clear of his brow as he went.

  "On your feet, Red River!" he roared, clapping kragh on the shoulder as he went past them, marching toward the front. "Our last night on the road, and then we head home, up into the peaks and toward the Dragon's Tear!"

  The afternoon passed without incident. The kragh, hundreds deep, crowded the Chasm Walk, an avalanche of green flesh and armor. They marched, indefatigable. A few called out raucous war chants, simple call-and-response songs that dated further back than memory went. They walked as the sun wheeled through the pale blue sky toward the western peaks, illuminating but no longer warming, and then when it dimmed behind the highest crags they struck down again and made camp once more, pitching their tents and huts right there on the floor of Chasm Walk.

  Nakrok posted sentries half a mile ahead and behind, and allowed small fires for cooking but little more. The kragh set about the business of making camp, roaring out to each other on occasion, engaging in conversation, settling down to boil the dried jerky they carried in their pouches. Tharok moved amongst the Red River, ignoring the studied looks and reserved responses, simply enjoying their company and not giving thought to the future.