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

by Phil Tucker

  "I left the cliffs and walked into the little meadows that were scooped into the bowls amidst the cliff tops. There I saw the goats and sheep. I watched how they stood, how they ate. How they moved together. How some might stand apart, chewing, only to return to the herd and cease to be an individual. And that's when I saw a charwolf, the first and only one I have ever seen. You have heard of them?"

  Tharok shook his head.

  "No? Then you are fortunate. It appeared amongst the sheep, and at first I didn't recognize it for what it was. I didn't recognize it for anything but a slightly larger sheep, wooly white and filthy as the rest, black-faced, quiet and herd-like. But then I noticed that it was moving in a manner strange to the herd. It wasn't drifting with them, but cutting across their path, changing the direction the sheep were headed. Some followed it, and then more, until the herd was moving back upcountry toward a ridge of trees. I stared, confused, and then I saw the yellow eyes. Once I had recognized it for what it was, I had trouble understanding how I could have ever thought it was a sheep. I stood up and watched as it led the sheep closer and closer to the woods.

  "That's when the shepherd noticed, fool that he was, and sent his dogs. But it was too late. The charwolf led the sheep into the woods, all of them following him in a single line, and by the time the dogs were there, perhaps ten seconds after the last had disappeared, the sheep were gone. I joined in the search, but do you think we ever saw any of those sheep again? No, we did not.

  "I walked back down to the little town and sat there in the square and thought and thought. The answer had been revealed. The firehawk had captured its prey through force, through attack. The charwolf had taken in one swoop over sixteen sheep all at once. How had it done so?"

  "By pretending to be a sheep?" asked Tharok, caught up in the tale despite himself.

  "Almost. By convincing the sheep and I that it was one of them. The next step wasn't obvious. I understood what to do, but not how to do it. Then I realized that the very nature of Egard's test meant it had to be possible for me to exercise that power without training. One either has the talent, or they don't.

  "That night was the first during the next three months that I spent sleeping in stables and pastures. I would spend hours looking at these animals, the ponies, goats and sheep, and try to convince them through sheer will that I was one of them. I would sit there and stare at them and try to get them to understand that I was a sheep."

  Gregory paused, reached into his jacket and withdrew a small flask. He uncorked it, took a sip, then put it away.

  "Did you succeed?" asked Tharok.

  "No. Four months had passed since Egard's challenge, and I had nothing to show for it. So I decided to leave the pens and instead study the charwolf. What a fascinating beast. Whether it's leading sheep and pigs or children and women, the results are the same. Nobody knows where the victims go. Nobody knows why the charwolf takes them. I traveled to Nous and went to their great university, where I asked just about everybody about the charwolf. Most of them laughed at me and declared that they didn't exist. Others pointed me in the direction of ancient texts that said nothing of use. Finally I discovered an old philosophical tract on the nature of being that used the charwolf as an example."

  "The nature of being?"

  "What it means to be yourself."

  Tharok went to protest, but then chose to stay silent. Gregory nodded in approval.

  "The book said that the only way that the charwolf could convince other creatures to follow it, could convince a sheep or a man that the charwolf was really one of them, was for the charwolf to believe it itself. Ah! You cannot imagine the thunderbolt that struck me that night, deep in the bowels of the library, reading those yellowed pages in what felt like the bottom of a book-lined pit. Of course! I had spent months trying to impose upon the animals that I was one of them, commanding them to not see me as human but as a goat, when I didn't believe it myself. I might as well tell you to believe the sky is red. No, what I had to do was believe it myself in some fashion, and then lead the goats to see it too."

  "You had to believe you were a goat."

  "Indeed! And before you laugh, take a look at Grax, here. Look where such a belief has led me."

  Annoyance flickered through Tharok at the human's arrogance. "It's led you to a high mountain pass in the company of kragh and trolls, far from Sige and still alone."

  Gregory stopped his amiable puffing on his pipe and narrowed his eyes. He slowly chewed on the stem, the hard wood clicking against his teeth. "True. I can't deny it. I have power, but power does not bring wisdom. What happened to me after my training with Egard is a story twice as long as the one I am telling you, but it has no bearing on this. I'll finish now. Listen closely.

  "I returned to the Killspray Islands and told Egard that I would be bringing him all the goats that evening. He largely ignored me, but I marched away, confident. I went to the center of town and sat in the middle of the square and began to think like a goat. That is where the talent is, where you either have the capability or you don't. It's not simply a question of imagination, but rather an ability to truly believe yourself to be other than what you are. To feel four legs beneath you, the hunger in your belly that can only be assuaged for a while. The need to chew cud. The smells, the tastes, the coiled strength in your muscles. To be a goat."

  "So, you did it. You believed yourself to be a goat."

  "I did. And then I walked all over the island, and every goat followed me. I was in a daze, and it was all I could do to remember my objective. I wanted to stop and eat and sleep and doze. But I didn't. I walked and walked, with no one stopping me, and led over a hundred goats to Egard's hut, where he emerged and saw me standing there, amidst this ocean of goat faces, all of them staring at me. He took me in there and then, and I stopped believing myself a goat and let them go."

  "And right now you believe yourself to be a troll? How are you talking to me like this?"

  "Only a true beginner or a complete incompetent has to believe himself to be a goat in the way I did, to truly be a goat with all his being to the point where he's barely human. Now, after years of mastery, I can believe I am a troll with only a small part of my mind. As you grow more adept at this training, you begin to believe yourself to be many things at the same time. I have been, all at once, the falcon and the hare, the horse and the man, the woman and the child. I have been the fish in the water and the firehawk in the air, the troll and the mountain goat. I have been many combinations, even once reaching my own personal record of five different creatures at once. That is why Grax stands here protecting me as one of his own. Because in my mind, and in his, I am. Were I to die? Woe to all your kragh, who would suddenly be faced with a lost and angry troll."

  "Alright. I understand. Now, tell me how this test is to proceed."

  "You understand? I sincerely doubt it. But we shall proceed with the test. I have never heard of a kragh who possessed this ability, and while you may be the first, the odds are against it. Still, it has passed the time. Now, you must demonstrate your natural talent for controlling others by believing yourself one of them. Pick something simple: a fish, perhaps, or a bird. They have limited minds. Then, I want you to attune yourself to it, and simply give it a nudge. Move it in a way that it wouldn't have done of its own accord. If I see you do that, I'll concede you have the ability. If not, well..." Gregory smiled widely.

  Tharok nodded. A fish or a bird. No; a visceral part of him rejected starting so small, so humbly, so pathetically. He cast about until his gaze fell on Grax, and then he stood. Gregory followed his line of sight, realized his intention, and immediately doubled over laughing.

  "You would work on Grax? A mind more alien to you than anything possible? A mind so hard to reach that at times I doubt it exists? Please, I would rather not die when your tribe comes roaring to discover why my troll killed their warlord."

  Tharok's father had once said that the truest test of a kragh was how he acted when his life was in
danger – which was why he had taught his sons how to fight with real weapons, dealing cuts that would take days to heal. He had always said that when the danger was real, the learning curve was steepest.

  So, Tharok took a deep breath, reached down into the fire, and as quickly as he could, drew forth a smoldering log and hurled it at Grax's head.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tiron ghosted up to the mouth of the alleyway and glanced out into the street. It was shadowed by overarching wooden extensions built out from the second floor and a medley of brightly colored awnings. Everything was different and alien, from the smells of spices and honeyed meat that rode the breeze to the flowing robes that the people were wearing, the strange peaked shape of the windows that were filled not with glass but wooden lattices. People were arguing at shops whose wares were displayed in large windows beneath the awnings, and a quick glance showed it all to be metalwork of some kind, ranging from pots and lamps to ornate statuary and blades.

  Voices called out in amusement, others were raised in anger, and somewhere a flute trilled a high-pitched song. Sunlight illuminated a slender strip down the center of the street, and the clothing of those who passed through it would blaze a brilliant crimson or buttery yellow, catch fire or smolder before they passed back into the shadows.

  A man was watching him with wide eyes – a beggar, his legs missing below the knees, sitting across from the alley mouth on a dirty mat with a beaten pot of copper in front of him. Tiron ignored him and stepped out into the street, Ord right behind him, then Iskra, followed last by Hannus. Assuming a scowl, Tiron lifted his chin and began to walk confidently through the shadows, stepping around street dogs who lay sleeping on the cobblestones and ignoring the stares of everyone he passed. Conversation stilled around them, people elbowed each other and pointed, and Tiron began to walk faster.

  A large, rose-colored building stood at the edge of the street, a jagged vertical sliver visible between the balconies that crowded in on either side, its massive dome whose surface was carved in a snake scale pattern, a golden spike at its peak. A church? A palace? He had no idea.

  Their plan had been a simple one. As no one in their party spoke Agerastian, there was no point in asking for help or directions. Instead, they would walk until they either found the palace or were accosted by the authorities, at which point Iskra would make it clear that she wished to see the Agerastian emperor, and all would proceed smoothly and without any further difficulty from that point on.

  It was a wretched plan, but their complete ignorance of Agerastos precluded anything more subtle. Tiron had been in favor of mugging passersby's for their clothing, but Iskra had ruled against him; they would not begin their attempt to sue for an alliance by committing crimes against the locals.

  Through the crowd Tiron made out three guards standing at ease in the sunlight, skewers of dark meat in their hands. They were wearing short vermillion jackets chased in gold, black pantaloons, and yellow sashes around their waists. Heavy, curved blades hung from their belts, and they had that air of disdain and confidence that marked all men in positions of authority. Tiron slowed, considered turning back, and decided against it.

  He walked up to the three men, his hands suitably far from the hilt of his sword, and slowed as they caught sight of him. Iskra stepped forward, and Tiron felt a wave of admiration pass through him. She exuded nobility, from the rich weave of her clothing to the poise with which she held herself. The sunlight burnished her hair a deep auburn, and Tiron thought she had never looked more beautiful.

  The guards stepped up warily, two of them tossing their skewers aside while the third, slightly plumper than the others, slid his quickly under his yellow sash. Their leader had a round face with a weak chin, but his eyes were lively and his interest seemed sharp. He asked them something in a stream of Agerastian: a question, Tiron judged from the lilt on which it ended.

  Iskra gave a formal nod. "My apologies, but I do not speak your language. Please, take us to someone with whom we can converse."

  The lead guard frowned, hesitated, and then looked past Iskra to examine Tiron and his two guards. He considered their swords and their sodden clothing, then gave Iskra a wary nod in return. He said something slowly in Agerastian, then pointed at Tiron's sword and gestured that it be handed over.

  Iskra turned back to him. Doubt flickered across her face, but then she nodded. "We'll not accomplish our goals here with the blade. Please disarm, Ser Tiron."

  A blank refusal rose up within him, but he checked it savagely and made sure his expression remained neutral. It felt profoundly wrong, but he unbuckled his sword, wrapped the belt around the scabbard, and stepped up to extend it slowly to the guard. The man said a single word, and the second man who had thrown away his skewer stepped forth to accept it, along with Ord's and Hannus' blades.

  Their leader relaxed and gave a stiff smile. He hesitated, clearly wishing to ask questions, but finally he gestured politely that Iskra should follow him, and took a few steps before glancing back. Iskra inclined her head and followed, at which the man turned and resolutely began leading them down the street.

  A large crowd had gathered to watch this exchange, and Tiron heard countless whispers as he and his men followed Iskra down the street. The other two guards followed them, and in such manner did they leave the street and emerge into a large, irregularly shaped square that was dominated by that rose-colored building. It was large, as tall as a castle tower and built with a massive ground level, but the guard did not lead them toward it. Instead they crossed the square, which seemed to serve as a sparse market, its sides crowded with tents and stalls, its center bare beneath the midday sun but for a solitary plane tree whose canopy shielded a slumbering mass of about a dozen hounds.

  The guard captain led them across the square, around the sleeping dogs, and up to a stall whose front was laden with slender pamphlets and small, framed sketches of buildings, maps, and strange monsters. A man rose to his feet behind the stall as they approached. He was of medium height and perhaps fifty years of age, his face lined and well-tanned, his hair touched with gray. He had the suspicious and alert expression of a dog used to being kicked.

  The guard captain said something softly to his plump underling, who nodded and jogged away. He then turned to the stall owner and spoke rapidly to him. The owner's eyes widened, and then he turned to consider Iskra, gaze flickering past her to Tiron and the others before he nodded to the captain.

  He stepped out from behind the stall, bowed in a surprisingly elegant manner, and said in a heavily accented voice, "Please excuse me. Many years since I speak Ennoian. I am Orishin. Is this your language?"

  Ser Tiron felt a knot of tension relax within him; at least they had avoided being stabbed to death before they had a chance to explain their cause.

  Iskra nodded graciously to the man. "It is, and well met, Orishin. I am Lady Iskra of Ennoia, come to seek an audience with your emperor."

  Orishin translated rapidly for the captain, who was listening with intense focus. The captain rubbed his nose and replied sternly and at length, after which Orishin turned back to Iskra.

  "Captain Patash welcomes you to Agerastos. He says you do us much honor by visiting, and he hopes your stay is pleasing to you."

  Tiron restrained the urge to raise an eyebrow. That didn't match the tenor of the captain's questions.

  Orishin pressed on. "He humbly ask, how you come to Agerastos and how many more of you here."

  "Please tell the captain that we came by way of a secret Lunar Gate, that this is our full number, and that our intentions are peaceful. Please ask him to conduct us to the palace as quickly as possible, and tell him we are most grateful for his assistance."

  Again Orishin translated quickly and quietly while Tiron watched Patash. Was the translation faithful?

  The guard captain tossed off an immediate response.

  "He ask, where is Lunar Gate?"

  Iskra smiled apologetically. "That, we will not reveal to an
yone but the emperor."

  The captain clearly was not pleased with this response, but he gave a pensive nod.

  The sound of hurrying footsteps caused Tiron to turn, and he saw without much surprise the plump guard returning with eight other guards at his heels. These men had come quickly, their hands on the hilts of their swords, but Patash gave a curt wave of his hand and they relaxed, fanning out to surround Tiron's small group, their faces hard but their eyes alight with curiosity.

  Iskra ignored them completely. Captain Patash smiled stiffly again, then bowed and gestured, saying something that sounded courteous to Tiron's ear.

  "The captain ask, you follow him? He says it is his pleasure to escort you to palace."

  "Very well," Iskra said. "Thank you."

  The captain turned to the large crowd that had gathered and clapped his hands twice, barking a command as he did so, and the crowd reluctantly dispersed. With the captain in the lead they walked down the side of the square to the mouth of a large street, four Agerastian guards ahead and six behind. Tiron checked Ord and Hannus; they were tense, but calm. Good men.

  Orishin walked alongside Iskra, hands laced behind his back. Tiron stepped up on his lady's far side, feeling the absence of his sword acutely.

  "Lady Iskra, if I may ask." Orishin assumed a disarming smile. "You are come to ask for peace of the emperor?"

  "In a manner of speaking," said Iskra. "Our intentions are most certainly peaceful."

  Orishin nodded vigorously. "Yes. You come for - no, I mean, you are emissary of Ascendant?"

  Iskra's smile was apologetic. "You will forgive me, but that I shall reveal only to the emperor himself."

  "Yes, yes, of course. Orishin, he ask too many questions. Please forgive."

  "Not at all," said Iskra, smiling politely. "How did you come to learn Ennoian?"

  Tiron kept an eye out as they walked. He was starting to discern some general patterns in the crowd, a different manner of stare depending on who was looking at him. All were curious, but in the hard faces and cold eyes of most he saw animosity if not growing hostility as the crowd realized who they were. That made perfect sense; with an Agerastian army on Ennoian soil, he and Iskra represented the enemy.