by Phil Tucker
“That’s not possible,” said the witch. “Even for one such as her.”
Ser Wyland rolled Kethe onto her back and checked her pulse. “It seems our Lady is full of surprises. She destroyed the taint of your magic. There’s only one kind of person I’ve ever heard about who can do that.”
“A Virtue,” said Asho. He stared down at Kethe in wonder. He thought of the Virtues he had seen at the Battle of Black Hill, clad in resplendent armor, glowing with might, figures out of legend and surpassingly wondrous. “But…” He couldn’t string his thoughts together. “But that means she has to go to Aletheia.”
“Or die,” agreed Ser Wyland, voice heavy. He wiped at his face, his expression weary.
“A Virtue,” said Mæva, her voice soft with respect. Or fear. “Is that what Ashurina sensed? No wonder she told me of your coming.”
“It won’t make much of a difference if we don’t stop Laur’s army.” Ser Wyland rubbed at his face. “They won’t care what she is. They’ll only want her dead.”
Asho rubbed his hand over his head. Too many complexities were manifesting themselves too quickly for him to understand. They had an inkling as to Kethe’s potential nature, but what of his own? Had the sword spoken to him? What had he sensed within himself? What had he turned away from? Doing so had almost cost Kethe her life…again. He rubbed his face and turned to the demon. “Let’s focus on the next step for now. Maybe we can grab one of its horns as proof of what we’ve done.”
Ser Wyland stood, looking twice his age. “Indeed. We’ll work on removing one while the others recover.”
Asho nodded with gratitude, raised his blade high overhead, and brought it down with all his strength at the great, winding horn’s base. The shock of the blow shook him right up to the shoulders.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Chasm Walk was a vast and perilous gorge that had carved a route through the mountains, making it one of the primary passes through which one could traverse from the rich pastures to the south to the wild and desolate plains to the north. It opened deep in the heart of the territory of the Orlokor, who exacted high tolls on the human and kragh merchants who were loath to travel the four hundred miles to the east to the Dead Sky Pass. Orlokor greed, however, resulted in exorbitant tolls; as such, the gorge was perhaps less frequently traveled than its easy gradient would lead one to assume, its vertiginous walls rarely echoing with the passage of mules and wagons.
The Red River Tribe moved as one, the twelve clans strung out behind Tharok, who was riding at the front astride a great mountain goat, one of the many tamed bucks whose great spiraling horns could skewer a bear from belly to spine. The rest were, for the most part, on foot; large bundles of furs were strapped to the backs of donkeys while heavier loads were carried on supple slings hitched between other mountain goats. They moved at a good pace, striding with the mile-eating steps of kragh given to lengthy periods of travel, and the crushed rock that filled the savage depths of the gorge and formed a rough and ready road proved easy ground for them to cover with their roughly made boots.
On the third day they reached the first Orlokor outpost, a crudely amplified series of caves set into the base of the chasm wall from which some thirty lowland kragh had spilled, hastily pulling on their human-crafted chainmail and readying their spears and swords. Not an axe amongst them, Tharok had noticed as he pulled the goat to a halt. He watched as the Orlokor fell into a rough, humanlike formation and approached.
“Who goes there?” roared their leader, a broad and stocky kragh whose forehead would have reached no higher than Tharok’s sternum.
“The Red River tribe,” he called back in return, not deigning to dismount.
The leader surveyed the few hundred kragh massed behind Tharok, eyes running over the goods, the children and women, and then settled once more on Tharok. “The Red River are led by Wrok, or if he’s dead, by his brother Krol. You are neither.”
“No, I am not.” Tharok resisted the urge to scowl at Krol’s name. The large kragh had never returned, tipped off no doubt by the clans that had left during the night. “I am Grakor’s son, Tharok, wielder of World Breaker and warlord of the Red River. Wrok is dead and Krol has fled. We go to the Orlokor warlord.”
The leader absorbed this as the lowland kragh muttered to themselves. “World Breaker? You can’t be—”
Tharok drew his great black scimitar and pointed it at the lowland kragh. “You call me a liar, Orlokor?”
The leader stepped back, eyes opening wide in fear and amazement. “No! Is that—is that really—? I—good fortune to you, then, Tharok, son of Grakor. Mighty Porloc will be happy to receive your tribute.”
“Your expectations mean nothing to me.” Tharok sheathed World Breaker. The gesture hadn’t been subtle, but it would get the rumors moving. “Now move aside.”
And without waiting for the stocky lowland kragh to respond, Tharok urged the mountain goat forward. Its neat hooves clipped along the crushed rock road, and the Orlokor leader growled, baring his diminutive tusks, but at the last moment stepped aside. Tharok didn’t even glance down at him, but looked serenely over the heads of the other lowland kragh as their group of thirty parted. He rode through them and his tribe followed, forcing the Orlokor to stand along the cliff walls and watch as they passed, until the last of the highland kragh were through and they regathered to mutter angrily amongst themselves.
Tharok set an easy pace. He wanted Porloc to have plenty of time to react. Five days and three checkpoints later, the Chasm Walk began to level out, the peaks around them subsiding into mere mountains, their tops no longer encased in snow and ice. The trees began to show greater variety, fir and pine giving way to oak and aspen, and the air grew warmer by slow degrees.
Each night they made camp off the Walk, striking out for an hour to find hidden, higher ground, and mounting a perimeter set by Barok and enforced by numerous kragh who patrolled throughout the night. Each night Tharok had Wrok’s hut assembled and he sat brooding in the gloom, the darkness dispelled by a solitary lamp as he turned the circlet around in his hands, examining the plain iron surface, wondering at its nature, its history, its origin. He found that the more he wore the circlet, the harder it became to take it off, and he had grown to relish its clarity of thought, the breadth of the knowledge it gave him. Yet in the depths of the night, doubts assailed him. Which of them was truly making the decisions? Was he, when he wore it, or somebody—or something else?
It was almost two weeks after setting out that they reached the mouth of the Chasm Walk, the snowy peaks but a memory behind and above them. They stopped at the sight of a new construction. A massive wall extended from side to side, blocking the last of the gorge as it flattened out into a wider valley. Two great guard towers had been built along the wall, their skilled construction unlike anything kragh could erect, human-carved blocks of stone cemented tight and built to last. Orlokor kragh were striding along its top and manning the towers, and the few hundred Red River kragh stopped and marveled at its presence. To have had humans build this wall must have cost a fortune in coin, and hinted at Porloc’s concern for who might come over down the pass toward his lands.
Tharok spurred the mountain goat forward and rode the last few hundred yards up to the wall. A great gate of ironwood was set in the center, its surface banded by steel and sporting great pointed rivets, a fearsome entrance that would take much effort to force. Sitting astride his goat, Tharok glanced up at the light green faces that peered down at him from between the crenulations and waited.
Finally a kragh of some import appeared, dressed in the black uniform of Porloc’s personal clan. The kragh was slender, slight, no bigger than an eight-year-old highland kragh, but normal perhaps for the lowlanders. “Who are you, and what do you want?” he called down, his voice harsh and rough.
“I’m Tharok, warlord of the Red River clan. You know who I am. Word has preceded me. Open the gates and let me pay my respects to Porloc.”
“We know w
ho you are, son of Grakor,” called the kragh. “Porloc demands to know: do you come in peace like your father, or is this a time for blood?”
“Time for blood?” Tharok laughed. “I have with me only two hundred kragh, many of them women and children. Do you so fear the highlanders that you think even our old women could break down this wall?”
The kragh stiffened. “You claim to carry World Breaker, Ogri’s blade. Word has reached us that you claim that Ogri’s blood runs through your body. What are your intentions?”
“Nothing but respect,” said Tharok, spreading his arms. “By Ogri, I swear that I have come to pay my respects to Porloc and nothing more.”
The kragh thought this over and then disappeared from view. Several hundred lowland kragh had gathered along the top of the wall, and they now were gazing down with bows and arrows held ready. Tharok could practically taste their fear.
The front gate opened, and a delegation moved out to greet them. Some sixty kragh mounted on horses emerged, the human-provided steeds speaking of wealth and power. At their center rode Porloc, his great fat body mounted on a large draft horse clad in black silks.
Tharok turned to look at the Red River kragh behind him. He found Barok amongst their number and nodded at him, and the weapons master marched forward, joining Tharok out before the Tribe. Moments later Maur detached herself from the tribe as well, so that the three of them stood ready and waiting as the Orlokor reached them.
The sixty warriors halted their horses in a gradual curve before them, and from their center Porloc and six guards continued forward, stopping only ten yards from where Tharok was waiting. Porloc was dark for a lowland kragh, and even had a hint of tusks emerging from his broad mouth. He was fat and soft, clad in green finery and uncomfortable with the blade slung over his back. He fixed Tharok with a beady glare.
The sun beat down on the kragh, both lowland and high, and everything was still except for a cool breeze from the higher slopes that blew down the Chasm Walk at their backs. Porloc raised himself to his full if still insignificant height, and Tharok nudged his mountain goat forward, indicating by his willingness to approach Porloc that the other was of higher station. This seemed to reassure the great warlord to some degree, but his eyes were filled with wariness.
“Greetings, Porloc of the Orlokor, greatest warlord of all the kragh tribes,” said Tharok. “I’ve come with the Red River tribe to speak with you, to introduce myself to you, and renew old bonds.”
“You are well received,” said Porloc, smoothing the silk over his belly. “Welcome to our lands. You look familiar. What is your name?”
“Tharok, son of Grakor, who has been killed by Tragon treachery.”
Porloc spat. “The damned Tragon. Grakor was a great kragh, tough and smart. I counted on him, depended on him. His loss is bad.”
“But you have gained me,” said Tharok. “A new warlord of the Red River tribe.”
“Grakor was of the Grey Smoke,” said Porloc. “Why is it that you lead the Red River?”
“Because Wrok of the Grey Smoke is no more,” said Tharok loudly. “For his treachery I burned his body and was chosen to lead his tribe.”
Mutters swelled along the wall.
“I see,” said Porloc, eyeing Tharok with veiled eyes. “Is it true, then, that you carry Ogri’s sword?”
In response Tharok reached down and drew it forth in one smooth sweep so that he could hold World Breaker high and allow the sun to gleam from its ebon blade. It seemed to hold the moment, the attention of hundreds focused on its length, as if it were more real than anything around it, making the whole world seem insubstantial by comparison.
“World Breaker,” said Porloc, his voice quiet. “It is true, then. You have it—the Uniter’s sword. I’ve heard whispers that you wish to unite the tribes, Tharok. That you are Ogri come again. That you even want to rule the Orlokor in my place. What do you say to that?”
Tharok held the blade high for a moment longer, allowing the tension to mount, and then he lowered it so that its point was directed at Porloc’s chest. The fat-bellied warlord drew his mouth into a silent snarl, and his six guards bristled. Tharok ignored them. He swung the blade so that its point swept the battlements of the wall, and then finally lowered it.
“World Breaker was given to me by Ogri,” he said, calling out so that his voice rang across the chasm. “Ogri told me that whoever wielded it would unite the tribes, and that they would usher in a new era of glory for the kragh.”
Tharok fell still. Barok stirred by his side, shifting his weight to his back foot, turning subtly so that his profile was presented to the six kragh. Maur was glaring at him, her eyes livid.
“I’ve come from the highlands with Ogri’s blade because I believed him,” called out Tharok. “The kragh must unite under one ruler, under a kragh who has proven himself worthy of the blade. A true leader, one who will make history. That’s why I’ve come to present it to you, Porloc of the Orlokor. I’ve come to give you World Breaker.”
The stunned silence was filled by a roar of delight from the kragh along the wall, who banged their weapons against the battlements and stomped their feet on the rock. Porloc blinked, and then a wide smile split his circular face, his eyes gleaming with pleasure and delight. Tharok slipped from the canted saddle and dropped to the ground, and there he reversed his grip on World Breaker so that he was holding it hilt out, then walked toward the Orlokor warlord.
“I’ve come to renew our vows of alliance,” he said in his avalanche voice, so that even those cheering on the wall could hear. “I’ve come to follow you when the war against the Tragon breaks out.” He stopped just short of the chieftain, who shifted his weight in barely hidden desire to grip World Breaker. “My father had the honor of being your blood brother,” he said. “He fought by your side and helped you carve your empire from these lands. As such, I bring you World Breaker not just as the warlord of the Red River, but as your blood son.”
Everybody stilled. Maur hissed under her breath, and Porloc froze. Tharok went down on one knee and raised World Breaker for the chieftain to take it. From the crowd spread a ripple of hushed voices as kragh whispered to kragh what had been said. Nobody moved, until finally Porloc reached out and closed his small fingers around World Breaker’s hilt. He let out a sigh of pleasure as its strength flooded him, and lifted the sword from Tharok’s grip, raising it to the sky before lowering it and gazing full upon its blade. He turned it around, marveled at how it caught the light, and then laughed, a sound that was young and filled with delight and heady pride.
“Your gift is well received, Tharok, son of Grakor, who was my blood brother. You give me a gift straight from Ogri himself. You give me the means to win the war against the Tragon, for war is coming, and with this sword I’ll not just win the war, I’ll unite the tribes under the Orlokor banner! I renew our alliance to the Red River, I recognize you as warlord of your Tribe, and more—I recognize you as if you were my own son, blood of the kragh with whom I shared blood so many years ago. Come!”
Tharok rose to his feet and stood by the horse so that Porloc could grab him in a bear hug, squeezing him with surprising strength before clapping him hard on the back and laughing once more, holding up World Breaker for all to see. The Orlokor kragh exploded into bellows and roars of approval, pounding on the battlements, and Porloc turned his mount in a slow circle.
Which was why only Tharok, who alone did not cheer, heard Maur as she whispered, “You fool—what have you done?”
Porloc had ridden north from his great tent city specifically to meet Tharok as he emerged from the mountains. Word had traveled quickly of World Breaker’s appearance, and rumor had swelled until it was said that the Red River tribe moved at the head of thousands of highland kragh, come down from the mountain to sweep the Orlokor into their grip and then to smash their way south into the human city of Abythos. Porloc had gathered as many warriors as he could and ridden hard for the north, to guard the wall at the mouth of Chas
m Walk and await the worst.
His relief, therefore, was immense. He insisted on having Tharok ride by his side as he returned to the south, a ride of some five hours down from the high valley into the broader and gentler slopes below, the low mountains giving way to foothills and long ridges that eventually sank deeper into the ground before becoming the plains upon which he and the Orlokor lived. Gold, his great tent city, sat in the heart of the largest valley, a great conglomeration of huts and tanned hide tents, the permanent home of almost a thousand kragh who formed the heart of the Orlokor tribe.
A part of Tharok wondered at this, at males who lived settled and still like female kragh, not roaming and roving with other males of their clan as they hunted and fought and protected their territory. Always remaining stationary, the world about them never changing, always seeing the exact same sight from the entrances of their tents.
As they descended the last slopes toward the tents and the few stone houses, Tharok discovered another reason why the sedentary life would never appeal to him: the place reeked of waste and filth. Clearly they had not figured out how to deal with the accumulation of trash and sewage caused by staying in one place indefinitely. Numerous solutions presented themselves to Tharok as he gazed upon the refuse. He chose to voice none of them.
“Gaze upon Gold, young Tharok, and marvel. Here stands my court, the center of our tribe, the center of the world. Around this valley the stars swing, and I sit in my hall and allow the humans to send their ambassadors to me. Food there is in plenty, and wealth pours in from all the lands we now hold. Ten years ago we conquered this land from various loose tribes and clans that held it, your father and I, and then we went on to smash the Hrakar themselves! Now? Never has a tribe grown so strong, so numerous, so powerful!”
Tharok nodded, turning to study the high ridges of the valley and note the guard outposts and the flocks of sheep that grazed on the lush grass that seemed to billow from the ground like smoke from the peaks of volcanoes. Everywhere he looked, there were lowland kragh, hundreds to be seen at any time, herding, going to and fro on unknown business, driving carts down into Gold or leaving on horseback on urgent missions.
