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

by Phil Tucker

  “Yeah, yeah,” muttered Tiron. “Heard it before.”

  He put on a burst of speed and ran in, blade held overhead as if for a downward swing. Bero raised his own sword to parry, but at the last moment Tiron checked his blow, pulled it and ducked down under the huge knight’s sword. He darted past the other man and cut down and behind at his calf as he went.

  His blade connected, but Bero’s thick greaves blocked the blow. The antlered knight turned, but not as quickly as Tiron, who spun and laid a massive strike against his back. His armor rang out like a bell.

  Tiron gripped his sword with both hands. An image came to him: Sarah’s face, a flickerflash of her joy as she laughed in the high meadow, golden with the light of the setting sun and fresh and beautiful forever. Then, her face as he’d seen it last, swollen and purple in the darkness of their ruined home, her head listing unnaturally to one side. Tiron roared, the sound coming from his very depths. Rage infused him, rushing up sick and ravaging from his core. Bero raised his blade but it didn’t matter.

  Tiron swung. His sword was weightless. Growling and barking with hatred, he wanted one thing and one thing only: blood. He would crack this monster’s shell, shatter his breastplate through force alone. Bero was clearly not used to being assaulted straight-on. He couldn’t catch his balance. He took as many blows on the shoulder and chest as he did on the blade.

  “Die!” Tiron stepped in, and stepped in again. He could see only Bero’s wide eyes through the slits of his helm. His family blade struck down again and again, and each time it left a dent in the heavy armor, chipping away the green paint and revealing dull iron beneath. He sheared off an antler horn. Smashed the helm in the side. Cracked Bero’s gorget.

  His anger was febrile. He felt the black madness start to pull him down. He fought it, felt the exhaustion and weakness clutch at him with claws and haul him back into the pit, but he wouldn’t go. He smashed aside Bero’s blade. It flew and fell to the ground. Bero raised his arms and sank down to one knee. Tiron shattered a gauntlet, kicked the man in the chest and drove him onto his back.

  Was that roaring sound the crowd or his own blood? He stood over the fallen knight and pounded at his helm, crushing it, disfiguring it, over and over. Bero was bellowing, yelling something, but Tiron couldn’t hear him. Finally the huge knight stopped moving. Tiron stared at the man’s dead eyes then staggered away, almost sobbing in his attempt to breathe, blade falling from his hands.

  He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stand.

  The rage left him. Sarah was still dead. His years wasted in a pit were still gone. There was nothing he could do to change that. He was powerless. Fate had crushed him.

  The world was swimming. He growled. He wouldn’t fall. He wouldn’t surrender. Never again. Never.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Asho had never held a blade until he was eleven years old. Brought up from Bythos, he had stood alone amongst the other pages in Kyferin Castle’s bailey, and held his wooden training sword as if it were a fork. The others had laughed. Brocuff had corrected his stance, given him basic instructions, and then set him to train against Alardo—who had beaten him mercilessly until Brocuff intervened. Ever since that day, the sword had been his only means of protecting himself from other such beatings, so he had trained hard. He had vowed to humiliate them all at their own game, and four years later had won the Ebon Cup, beating all the other pages in the three-day competition. Because of that, Kyferin had grudgingly made him a squire. Asho had exulted and trained all the harder. He had started to think he was talented with the blade. Plus he had survived the battle with the Agerastians, where all others had died. Perhaps he was gifted. Meant for great things.

  But, backing away rapidly from Ser Cunot, desperately keeping his guard up and trying not to trip, he realized just how much he still had to learn. The Golden Viper was smiling, advancing with gliding steps, his sword a flickering needle, almost unreadable, striking as quickly as lightning. Asho was soaked in sweat. His arm was burning from effort, his armor weighing him down. The worst of it was that he knew Ser Cunot wasn’t even exerting himself. He was toying with Asho, stealing some glory and honor away from Lady Kyferin by humiliating one of her sole two knights.

  In the periphery of his vision he saw Kethe desperately fighting the other Golden Viper. Her swordplay was impressive, but she too was giving ground. He thought of Ser Wyland’s words: My shield will always be at your back, my sword by your side. Would she agree to fight alongside him? Would they stand a greater chance of defeating the Vipers if they did so?

  No. He could only rely on himself.

  Asho let out a yell and threw himself forward, spearing his sword toward Ser Cunot’s face. The other knight batted his blade away and crouched low so as to take the impact of Asho’s charge on his shoulder. Their armor clashed as they collided, and then Ser Cunot shoved hard. Asho staggered, his charge neatly caught and rebuffed. There was no time to think. He parried a slice, then tried for a riposte, but abandoned it quickly in favor of another parry. His hand was numb from the shiver that ran down his sword each time he blocked. The crowd was screaming. Ser Cunot delivered an overhand chop, which Asho took on his shield and immediately sliced at Ser Cunot’s flank. The other man spun neatly away, and somehow stepped behind him.

  Asho’s stomach dropped. This man was brilliant with the blade, surefooted, agile and fast beyond belief. He tried to spin, but knew it was too late. He felt Ser Cunot’s sabaton stomp his calf and drive him down to one knee. Twisting, he dropped his shield and caught himself on the ground, his sword raised just in time to catch the strike that would have brained him from behind.

  Ser Cunot smiled at him with vulpine delight, his eyes slitted behind the gap in his helm. “Yield, slave, or I’ll dismember you before your Lady.”

  Sweat stung in Asho’s eyes, and just then he heard a surprised cry of pain. Kethe toppled to the ground, sword falling from her hand as Ser Cunad stumbled through the swing that had connected with her head. No. He couldn’t yield. Maybe Ser Wyland could keep Ser Cunad and Ser Laur at bay, but he would be doomed if Ser Cunot joined the fight. Gritting his teeth, he shoved Ser Cunot’s sword away and tried to rise, only to receive a kick in the chest that sent him sprawling onto his back.

  “Yield,” said Ser Cunot, still smiling sweetly. Asho swung his blade up, but Ser Cunot struck his hand with the flat of his sword and knocked it flying. Then the twin placed his sabaton on Asho’s chest and pressed his blade into the joint of his shoulder, driving the tip against the links of his hauberk. “Yield!”

  “Go to the Black Gate,” hissed Asho, and grasped Ser Cunot’s naked blade with his gauntlet. He gripped tight, trying to arrest its descent, but there were almost three hundred pounds of metal and man behind it. Leaning forward, Ser Cunot drove the sword slowly into his shoulder. Asho arched his back in pain, and then lashed out with his foot at Ser Cunot’s legs, hoping to knock him sprawling. The Viper danced aside, avoiding the blow and leaving his sword embedded in Asho’s shoulder. With a grunt Asho sat up and pulled the blade free, fumbling it so that it fell to the mud.

  In the near distance he heard a roar. Ser Cunad was charging the Black Knight, who stood unarmed. The Black Knight took off his helm and threw it at the Viper, who dodged easily and smacked the flat of his blade across the older man’s forehead. The Black Knight dropped.

  Damn. Asho reached down for Cunot’s blade, only to receive a thrusting kick to the shoulder that knocked him onto his back. With cruel precision Cunad embedded the tip of his murder seax into the same wound in Asho’s shoulder. Asho screamed, but the other man simply leaned in and pushed it even deeper.

  “That’s good, you Bythian whoreson,” said Ser Cunot again. “Keep fighting me. Give me the excuse I need to take off your arm.”

  The pain was excruciating, beyond anything Asho had ever known. He could hear Ser Wyland’s grunts and the rapid ring of metal as he fended off both attackers. Asho couldn’t yield. Wouldn’t. He closed his eyes,
desperately trying to think of some stratagem, any ploy that might grant him reprieve, and then the weight behind the blade suddenly disappeared.

  Asho opened his eyes. Ser Cunot was staring down at him with a dazed expression. Then he toppled over sideways, and Asho saw Kethe standing behind him, blood running down one side of her face. Her blue eyes were wide with what was either shock or cold determination.

  “Kethe!” Asho went to rise, but pain stabbed through his shoulder and his guts churned greasily. Kethe stared at where Ser Cunot had fallen, and then turned to look over at where Ser Wyland was fighting on, backing away rapidly as he sought to keep both men before him. Asho felt a fierce frustration, and extended his arm to her. “Help me up!”

  Kethe looked down at him and shook her head. Hefting her slender sword, she turned and began to run toward the last three combatants.

  The stands were going wild. Asho gritted his teeth and pushed himself up to watch. Ser Cunad saw Kethe approaching and peeled away, a look of sufferance in his expression as he moved to intercept her.

  Asho tried to rise. He pushed himself up to one knee, and then managed a crouch. Casting around, he saw his longsword and picked it up. With a cry he stood, and saw Kethe engage Ser Cunad.

  The second twin was just as fast—if not faster—than the first. He fought with his blade and murder seax, and came at Kethe whipping both before him in an intertwined pattern of glittering steel. Kethe didn’t hesitate. She timed her thrust just right, stepping in to engage Cunad while he was mid-stride, and caught his seax at the right angle. It slid halfway down, and then she flicked her sword around sharply and sent his long knife flying through the air.

  His sword, however, caught her across the shoulder and rang out loudly as it crashed into her pauldron. The force of the blow sent her staggering to one side, but she went with it and fell into a roll, then came back up smoothly on her feet in a way no man in full plate would ever have been able to do. Cunad was after her quicker than a thought, but Kethe danced back, her blade a snake’s tongue, catching and meeting Cunad’s every stroke faster than Asho could follow. She fell back again and again, and then slowly seemed to catch her stride. She stopped retreating, held her place, and then forced Cunad back a step.

  Asho yelled in exhilaration and disbelief and ran forward. Cunad’s swordplay was turning desperate. Kethe’s blows were gaining strength while his were growing weaker. Their blows rang louder and louder, Cunad’s blade leaping away from each block, his skill tested to its limit, until at last he was barely moving it from side to side, almost hugging himself in an attempt to keep away from her attacks.

  Asho slowed in amazement. He’d never seen anybody move so fast. Kethe grabbed her sword with both hands and brought it down in a powerful arc as if hewing right through the side of a tree. Cunad’s sword was smacked aside, and she followed through, spinning around, her blade swinging up and then coming down with terrible power to smash into Cunad’s chest.

  The sound was akin to Elon bringing his mightiest hammer down on a piece of white-hot metal. Cunad’s cuirass was stoved in, and the man fell to the ground in a heap.

  Ser Wyland disengaged from Ser Laur, who glanced toward Kethe, looked away, and then looked right back in amazement. Ser Wyland staggered and fell to his knees. His armor was battered and rent, his time spent dueling both enemies having taken a bitter toll.

  For a moment no one fought. Silence fell across the stands. Everyone stood waiting and watching as noble cousin faced noble cousin.

  Kethe stepped forth, her blade held down and to one side. Her tight braid was in disarray, her freckled face made all the paler by the shocking blood that caked one side of it, but she stood tall and seemed to radiate with a barely restrained power.

  Ser Laur was breathing heavily, but he was unharmed; his enameled armor looked as spotless as when he had first arrived. He lifted his visor and stared at her in disbelief. “What is this?”

  “I warned you,” said Kethe. She raised her blade and pointed its tip at him. “It’s time to start begging.”

  Asho limped up, sword in hand, and stood next to her. Ser Laur’s gaze flicked over to him, and when Ser Wyland also rose to his feet and walked over, he took a step back.

  “Three against one,” said Ser Wyland, his voice weary and almost apologetic.

  “I’ve fought against greater odds,” said Ser Laur, casting about the battlefield for any of his allies who might yet come to his aid. None rose.

  Asho knew he was the weakest of the group, but he had to press their advantage. He started to circle around Ser Laur, becoming the far point of the triangle that would crush him. Was the knight mad enough to insist on combat? He was staring at Kethe, whose gaze was blank and cold. There was death in the depths of her eyes, a promise of no quarter or mercy. Despite himself, Asho shivered. He’d never seen her like this, had never guessed she possessed such strength.

  Laur spread his arms out wide as if offering to embrace her, and then reversed his blade and drove its point deep into the earth. He removed his helm and set it on the pommel, and then began to applaud, turning to the stands and gesturing that the crowd join him. Cheers broke out, and Laur grinned, gesturing to Kethe, urging the crowd on. “It pleases me to concede to Lord Kyferin’s own daughter at a tourney held in his honor,” he cried. “What better way to pay respects to my uncle than to allow his daughter to take the victory? A knight in truth! Honor to Lady Kethe!”

  The crowd roared, and Laur turned back to her, his smile as warm as a knife cut. “Enjoy this, cousin. The next time I’ll beat you so badly you’ll bleed from all your holes for a week.” Then he bowed, clapped his hands again in mock applause, and stalked off to see to his fallen companions.

  Asho’s shoulders slumped, and he almost dropped his blade. Instead he sheathed it shakily and walked over to where Ser Wyland had joined Kethe. She was blinking in shock, and when he drew close, Asho saw that she was trembling violently.

  “Easy,” said Ser Wyland. “Deep breaths. Knights older than Ser Olbrecht have broken down after a good fight. Breathe deep. It’s over.” Then he laughed, half in amazement, and turned to survey the field. Squires were running forth to tend to their lords; servants were carrying out refreshments and chasing down horses. “It’s over, and by the Ascendant we still stand. A miracle. I can scarce believe it.” He shook his head, grinned wolfishly, and turned back to Kethe. “I’ve never seen the like. How long have you been training?”

  Kethe shook herself and looked up at him. “Training? Two and a half years.”

  “That’s it?” Asho removed his helm and placed it under one arm. “Two and a half years?”

  Kethe nodded woodenly. “Brocuff’s been teaching me. In Greening Wood. Once a week.”

  “Once a week?” Ser Wyland whistled. “I’m going to have to ask Brocuff for lessons, then. Impossible. A miracle, in truth. Perhaps a greater hand than your own guided your blade today. Or perhaps not. Still, you saved the hour, Lady Kyferin.” He pulled his helm off, revealing his short, thick, dark hair, which was matted with sweat. “I could have held Laur and Cunad off another minute, perhaps, but beat them both? Not likely.”

  “I saw you fall,” Asho said to Kethe. “You took a blow to the side of the head that would have felled an ox. How are you still standing?”

  Kethe touched the wound at the side of her head, then pulled her hand away and looked at her red fingertips. “I don’t know. I just got back up.”

  Trumpets sounded and cheers broke out all over again. Ser Wyland bowed low to Kethe. “Come. There are rewards to be collected. Shall we?”

  For the first time she smiled, and some semblance of the Kethe that Asho recognized appeared on her face once more. “Yes.” Then she laughed and covered her mouth with both hands. “We won.”

  “Against all the odds. Yes, we did. Now, come!”

  Ser Wyland started striding toward the stands in which Lady Kyferin and Lord Laur stood, the other knights limping and hobbling their way there too
so as to form a crowd. Some required several squires to help them stand, but only one was carried off the field: the massive form of Ser Bero.

  When all had been assembled, Lady Kyferin stepped forth, Lord Laur by her side, his face inscrutable. “Honorable knights, you have all performed most bravely on this field of battle. You have shown the gathered populace deeds of daring and skill that shall live on in tales and song. All of you displayed admirable courage and tenacity, and all of you did honor my late Lord husband as a result. Would that I could reward you all equal to your measure, but to do so would beggar the land. As such, it is my great pleasure to recognize the winning knights. Please step forth as you are named.”

  Menczel nodded to the trumpeters, who gave a brief call and named the first visiting knight. One by one the men stepped forward to bow low as Lady Kyferin lay a white sash over their shoulders and praised them full and long. Each of the visiting knights was named, and then the trumpets sounded for a seventh time and Menczel called out clearly, “All honor to Ser Tiron, late Lord of Tiron Hall.”

  Asho turned in shock and saw the Black Knight step forward. His helm was missing, and only now did Asho catch sight of his face. It was a hard visage, carved as if by the elements from granite, with a dense, shortly cropped black beard and roughly cut hair. One eye was swollen closed, his temple bruised and purple, but his other eye was sharp as light reflected from the heart of a ridge of ice. It was a harsh face, striking and fierce.

  Ashe felt someone grip his forearm, and looked down to see Kethe’s gauntlet. He glanced up her arm and saw that she had turned so pale he thought she would faint. She was breathing rapidly and shallowly, eyes locked on the Black Knight.

  Asho watched as the man stepped forward and bowed as the white sash was laid over his shoulders.