by Phil Tucker
“Maur-krya,” he said, choosing the honorific. It wouldn’t hurt, and anyway, thinking of the circlet had put him in a crafty mood.
“Tharok,” she said, stopping some five paces from him and crossing her arms. Krilla stopped a merciful eight paces away. She was as ugly as a drowned goat that had been left to bloat in the sun—and she was the only woman Tharok had ever seen best Krol in an arm-wrestling match.
“You’ve come to ask about the sword,” he said, not liking the silence.
Maur studied him, generous lips pursed, the nubs of her feminine tusks barely breaking past her lips. “No. It doesn’t matter where you found it, not now that Wrok possesses it. What I want to know is your version of what happened in the Jorin Valley when your clan was attacked. I’ve heard from Wrok, from Krol, even from several Tragon kragh themselves. But you’re the first of the White Smoke tribe I’ve had a chance to speak to, and the women’s circle would know your side of the tale.”
Tharok closed his eyes and snorted. “My father always said that the winners write history. My tribe is lost. What does it matter now what happened?”
“It matters, fool, because the truth has weight, and we don’t like how Wrok is dancing to the Tragons’ song. So, speak up, or Krilla will tear off your manhood and feed it to you.”
“I’ve heard that’s her usual way of mating.” Tharok grinned and opened one eye. Krilla, however, did not charge forward, as he had thought she might. “You’re smarter than Krol; I’ll give you that.”
“That’s not saying much,” said Krilla. “You males are all equally dumb.”
Tharok shrugged. “I won’t argue that. But, fine, I’ll tell you what happened if you cut me down.”
“Tell me what happened, or I’ll cut you until you do.”
Tharok stared into Maur’s gray eyes and knew that she would.
“Alright. Here is the truth of what happened. My father received word that the Tragon kragh wanted our entire tribe and the Red River tribe to join them in a raid to the north. They promised a good cut of the animals and foods from a wealthy caravan that was making its way through the Saragan Pass.”
Tharok closed his eyes and tried to quiet the pounding headache. “My father was suspicious, allied as he is—was—to the Orlokor tribe to the south, but he thought it worth investigating. He took our clan to meet with the Tragon, but we were ambushed on the neutral meeting ground, and though some escaped, most of my family were killed.” Tharok paused, examining the words. So much pain expressed in so simple a manner. “I escaped. The Tragon launched attacks on the other Gray Smoke clans and seized the women’s camp. My tribe was destroyed.”
Maur stood silently in thought, one arm laid beneath her breasts, the other hand stroking her chin as she gazed at nothing.
“Wrok has given us a large batch of shaman stone,” said Krilla in a deep rumble.
“And now a fancy new sword to match his ambitions,” said Maur, shaking her head. “I sense war on the horizon.”
Tharok opened his mouth to ask them about the shaman stone, but they had already turned their backs and begun to walk away. He needed to escape. He needed a way out of this mess, to escape and head down to the lowland Orlokor tribe that infested the southern slopes of the mountain range, lowland kragh that they were. His father had sworn himself blood brother to their warlord, a squat, thick-bellied kragh by the name of Porloc who ruled over the endless thousands of Orlokor. They were the mightiest tribe there was, ever since his father had helped Porloc smash the Hrakar to the east so many years ago. If he could escape and make his way down to the Orlokor, he could present them with his grievance, and then… But that was as far as his plan went. He couldn’t envision more than that.
Frustration made his headache pulse. He needed the circlet.
Another span of time passed, and for a while he drifted on an ocean of turbulent pain, barely aware of the world. Something tickled his nose—a fly landing on it—and he clumsily swept a hand past his face. It was tickled again and he opened one eye to see Toad standing just before him, a feather in his hand. With a roar he swiped at the light-skinned runt, but Toad laughed and fell back, landing on his back and clapping his feet together in glee.
“Human clap, human clap, this is how the humans clap!”
Tharok growled and flexed his hands with a savage yearning to snap Toad’s neck, but the little kragh seemed unaffected. He sat up, looking at Tharok from one eye and then the other. “Are you mad at me, mighty Tharok? Has Toad offended you? Well, perhaps you can find a way to forgive me.” And he drew the iron circlet from behind his back.
Tharok went still. “Give it to me.”
“For the tale, the full tale, with every detail that belongs within the tale,” said Toad, climbing back awkwardly to his feet.
“Everything,” said Tharok. “I’ll tell all. Every detail you want. Now give it.”
Toad held it out, teasingly close, and then drew it back. “I saw you speaking with Maur. You wouldn’t have gone and told her already, would you?”
Tharok laughed. “She doesn’t give a damn for the sword. She wanted to hear my father’s end.”
“As do I! I want it all. Give me your blood word that you will tell me everything I desire to know, and I’ll hand this metal band to you right now.”
“My word, on my blood.”
Toad nodded, well-pleased, and held out the circlet. Tharok reached out, took it carefully, and then pulled it onto his brow.
The world spun, laughter and voices played all at once in his mind, he saw a thousand different views of the mountains overlaid, and a clear picture emerged of the powers in play. He closed his eyes, digesting it all, allowing the image to grow definite as a course of action emerged.
“Come on,” said Toad, impatience in his voice. “You swore.”
“I did swear,” Tharok said, and his voice was calm now, quiet, confident. The anger was gone. In its place came certainty and deliberation. He discarded immediately the plan to escape, to flee to the Orlokor Tribe. Such a move, if effected, would only result in Porloc offering shallow condolences and a place amongst his soldiers, nothing more. Porloc would not march into the high mountain valleys to administer justice to a highland kragh tribe, even if it had belonged to his blood brother. No, Porloc would instead accept the news that Wrok had risen in power and begin courting him, seeking to replace his father with the old kragh.
“I’ll begin at the beginning, and you will tell me if you are well-satisfied with the tale. Agreed?”
Toad nodded suspiciously and lowered himself into a crouch.
“A vision of Ogri the Uniter came to my father. Mounted on his great dragon, Jaermungdr, Ogri told my father that the time had come for the highland kragh to unite, for the many small clans to become one, a great tribe at last, and that my father would lead the highland kragh down into the world, uniting the Tragon to the North, the Orlokor to the South, even the Hrakar to the East. That it was time for the kragh to unite once more. Ogri’s blood ran in my father’s veins, and my father would be the one to lead us.”
Tharok paused, gauging the effect of his words on Toad. The little kragh sat enthralled, whispering the words even as Tharok said them, committing them to memory.
He realized that he was being watched and nodded impatiently. “Go on.”
“My father was proud. You know this to be true.” Indeed, his father had called Toad a goblin and not a real kragh when last they had met, and had urged that he be killed and put out of his misery. “Though Ogri ordered him to collect World Breaker first, Grakor decided that this opportunity to meet with the Tragon would be the first step in uniting us all. He sent me instead, since I am his son, to collect the blade from the Valley of Death, while he went down with words of fellowship for the Tragon.
“I bid him wait, but he refused. So he descended into the valleys and I went up to the Dragon’s Tear, where I meditated and tried to decide on my next course of action. I knew my father was to be ambushed, even if
he refused to see it. Should I follow him, to fight at his side, or should I ascend further and retrieve the blade if I was able?”
Toad scooted closer a few inches, nodding his head, eyes unfocused as he pictured the scene. Tharok repressed a smile. “It was there that the Tragon kragh fell upon me. A score of them, with hounds. They had expected my father to expect an ambush and flee, and sent a group out to catch him if he did. But once they had killed him, they realized I was missing, so they came after me instead. I thought myself dead, but Ogri came to me, he filled my arm with strength, and I slew them all.”
Toad let out a low whistle. “You killed a score of Tragons? Even though they were lowland kragh, that’s a bit hard to believe.”
“Not with Ogri guiding my blade. The bodies still lie by the lake. If anyone doubts me, they can climb up there and see for themselves.”
Toad shrugged, allowing the point to pass. “Go on.”
“Ogri spoke to me then, told me that my father was dead and that I had to collect World Breaker for myself. That just as his blood had run in my father, it ran in me. So I gathered myself and climbed the Dragon’s Breath, climbed till I gained the Valley of the Dead, and there between the Five Peaks I found Jaermungdr frozen with Ogri’s body by his side, looking but asleep, covered by the thinnest layer of snow. I stood before them beneath the stars and there I found World Breaker, clutched still in Ogri’s hand. With reverence I took it, prayed to the Sky Father, and then Ogri sent a wyvern for me to ride down into the valleys below.”
“He sent you a wyvern?”
“Yes. He did. I rode its shoulders all the way down, but my injuries were too many, and I fell from its back. That’s how I was able to get down here so fast.”
Toad sat back on his heels, chewing the insides of his lips. “So you’re descended from Ogri, who helped you in a fight and told you to get World Breaker, because with it you would unite all the tribes.”
Tharok nodded. “That’s the short of it.”
“Well, if Ogri said that’s your destiny, what are you doing naked and upside down?”
Tharok grinned at him, baring his tusks. “I’m not dead yet. My fate is not yet sealed.”
Toad nodded slowly, rubbing at the underside of his chin. “Well, what proof do you have of all this? Barring somebody climbing all the way up to the Dragon’s Tear to look for Tragon bodies?”
“The blade itself,” whispered Tharok. “World Breaker has returned to us out of legend. It’s been hidden for who knows how many years. Do you think it an accident that I should find it? No, Ogri guided my hand. It was my destiny to find the blade, Toad. Fate. These are the words of the hour.”
Toad nodded again, absorbing all this, eyelids lowering. “Ogri’s blood. It has a good ring to it. The blade is indeed here. Still, I don’t know.”
Tharok took a deep breath. “You’re wise to have doubt. But I’ll give you one more piece of proof. Let it slip to Wrok that you’ve heard from a stranger who just passed by—say he’s a member of the Little Spider tribe—that a hunting party of Tragon kragh have been found dead in the high slopes, but a survivor is being brought down to the Red River camp to tell all that happened. Watch his face. He’ll not welcome the news. Watch him panic. He’ll send Krol with some kragh to intercept the Tragon. You know why he’ll do this, Toad?”
Toad shook his head, mystified.
“Because he will want that Tragon killed. He can’t afford to allow it to reach our camp. Because then it would speak of Wrok taking the Tragon shaman stone to set up my father’s death, and will reveal him to be a Tragon lackey, no true highland leader.”
“How do you know this?”
“Ogri’s blood flows in my veins, little Toad. I know many things. Run my test, and watch Wrok’s face. See if it is the face of a noble chieftain or a panicked lickspittle.”
Toad rose to his feet. “And if he does what you say, what will that prove?”
“It will prove, my good friend, that there was indeed a Tragon hunting party in the high slopes. That Wrok knew of them, and that they hunted me. That he was in on my father’s murder, and that my tale is true.”
Toad thought that over some more, taking a few steps away, muttering to himself. “The Tragon. Your father. Wrok. A hunting party chasing you, which you killed. Ogri giving you the blade, World Breaker itself, here today amongst us. You, a descendent of Ogri.” He tapped his chin and looked cautiously at Tharok. “If this is true, then, well, I’m sorry about tickling your nose with the feather.”
Tharok relaxed, allowing himself to smile, “It’s nothing, Toad. Now go, run my test. See what Wrok does. Tonight is the mating feast, is it not?”
“Yes.” Toad looked glum. “The greatest of the Red River kragh will impress the women and take them to mate. We’re also celebrating Wrok’s claiming of the sword.”
“Then tonight, if Wrok fails my test, tell my story to all the Red River kragh just as I told it to you.”
Toad ran that through his mind and grinned. “You’re a sly one, Tharok, you are. I always thought you as dumb as Krol, but if I do that, if I tell them all your tale, then things will get interesting.”
“I told you,” said Tharok, closing his eyes once more. “My fate is not yet sealed.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The night was growing late. The feast in the great hall had lasted for many hours, but now at long last the toasting and innumerable courses were over. The notables from Emmonds had ridden home, the knights and their squires had retired to their tents, and only the servants now remained, cleaning and scrubbing and undoing all signs of the evening’s festivities.
Iskra stepped into the Lord’s Hall with a sigh. If only her night were done. What she wouldn’t do to escape to her chambers, to fall into her great bed and pull the covers over herself, to close her eyes and drift away into sleep…
She’d seen no sign of Kethe since leaving the tourney field. Trapped by her responsibilities as the hostess, she had sent Hessa to search for her daughter, but to no avail. That look of terror she’d seen in Kethe’s eyes when Tiron had taken off his helm had struck her to the quick. Should she have refused to swear that oath of silence to Tiron? Or simply broken it? Erland would have sworn that oath and not cared how much it hurt anyone if it garnered him an important advantage. Was that the sign of a strong leader, then? A willingness to hurt others for the greater good? These questions and others swarmed in Iskra’s mind like bees around a disturbed nest. She wanted to find Kethe, sit with her, take her hands and explain why she had done what she had done. Make her understand. Ask her forgiveness.
Others followed her into the hall as she mounted the dais and sat on her white oaken chair. Lord Laur stopped just below her, dressed in a formal black outfit trimmed with gold. Ser Kitan Laur was there as well, dressed all in white with a half-robe falling rakishly just shy of his hips. The twin knights, Ser Cunot and Ser Cunad, and Lord Laur’s priest, Father Elisio, were standing to one side. Her contingent was composed of Ser Wyland, the wounded yet adamant Ser Asho, and Master Bertchold.
Iskra set a sweet smile on her face and leaned forward. “Well, my good Lord. The hour is late, and our brave knights are no doubt wearied by their full day. What matter needed so urgently to be discussed tonight?”
Lord Laur smiled and spread his hands. “Please, Lord Laur is too formal. Call me Mertyn.” He waited for Iskra to incline her head. “These are dangerous times, my dear Iskra. Every hour is precious. A terrible foe stalks our lands, wielding illicit magics. I’ve heard that even now the Agerastians are besieging the coastal city of Otran, but word is that the Grace disbanded his forces upon reaching Ennoia and retreated through the Solar Gate to Aletheia, only to change his mind and issue a summons for a new host with which to alleviate the siege. Our losses were so grave, however, that I’ve heard that precious few are flocking to his banner.”
Mertyn paused, as if hesitating over continuing a distasteful line of conversation. “Should Otran fall, the Agerastians will
gain a foothold on the mainland and cease to be a mere band of roving marauders.” He began to pull off his black leather gloves, one finger at a time. “They shall gain a permanent foothold from which to launch future attacks.” He glanced up at her almost idly. “Otran is not far from Castle Kyferin, is it? I wonder where their first attack shall fall? Surely you understand why I press for haste?”
Iskra inclined her head. “You are wise to the ways of the world, and I agree. These are perilous times. All the more reason for me to rejoice in our alliance. Family must stand together. With your and Lord Lenherd’s support, I know that my lands are safe.”
Mertyn nodded and stepped forward. “I couldn’t have spoken truer words, dear Iskra. The closer we stand, the stronger we are. That is why I raced here upon receiving word of my dear, dear brother’s passing. Without his Black Wolves, you are… terribly vulnerable. I’ve seen no more than fifty soldiers guarding your walls. You have—what—a half-dozen knights? Most of whom are now injured due to today’s tourney?”
Iskra felt a cold pool of dread coalesce in the bottom of her stomach, and though she allowed her smile to fade, she kept her expression amicable. “You perhaps underestimate our strength, but near enough. No doubt you now understand the value of our alliance.”
“Oh, to be sure.” Mertyn smiled and stepped closer again. “Were these other times, I would approach my proposition with greater tact and discretion. Some might think it unseemly, given how recently bereaved you are, but as I said, these are dangerous times, and we must look to the safety of our families, our children, our wards.”
The pool of cold hardened into ice, and Iskra stiffened. She willed him to stop. To speak no more. Instead, he smiled and reached up to take her hand.
“Dear Iskra. Long have I admired you from afar. You are wise, courageous, and surpassingly beautiful. You wield great wealth, but have not the means to defend your holdings. I, on the other hand, have that force, and in plenty. The twenty knights whom I have brought here with me are but a token of the might I can assemble. Together we can unite our lands, restore order and soothe all doubts. Together we will be the strongest couple in the land, and all shall tremble at our passing.”
