by Phil Tucker
Iskra closed her eyes tightly and focused on her breathing. There was no time for weakness, no room for breaking down. Survival depended on her being strong. Her men and women looked to her for leadership, to justify the faith they had placed in her and see them through this challenge. The Hrethings needed her strong so they could justify the sacrifice they were about to make. Everything would collapse in a second if they thought her broken and weak.
The door opened. She stood, wiping away the few stray tears that had slipped down her cheek, ready to greet Gunnvaldr or whoever had entered with a cheerful tone—and stopped. It was Ser Tiron. He was standing in the doorway, his expression haggard, his shoulders hunched, eyes sunken and staring at her.
“Ser Tiron?” Her voice faltered. “What’s wrong?”
“Iskra,” he said, his voice a pained rasp. She saw him look to the door as if he wished to escape, but then he shoved it closed and stepped deeper into the room.
“What is it?” She moved closer, alarmed. He had the look of a man who had received a mortal wound. His hard face was ashen and his hands were trembling.
“Iskra.” He took another step forward, and fell. She almost cried for help, fully expecting to see a dagger protruding from his back, but then saw that he’d fallen to his knees. He hung his head. “I’m a foul man. I’ve come to apologize, to confess. And then I’ll take my leave. I’ll go and I’ll never return.” He stared fixedly at the floor.
“Ser Tiron, what’s happened?” Had he betrayed them somehow? He’d just finished slaying a demon, for Ascension’s sake. “What’s going on?”
“I swore.” He spoke in belabored gasps, as if each word was being dredged up from the dark depths of his soul. “In that hole your husband put me in, I swore to kill you and your daughter and son.” His words were bloody and raw, and the intensity of them made her flinch. “I swore by the love of my dead wife that I would kill you all to avenge her, no matter what happened. I swore an oath. A sacred oath to her memory.” His face worked as misery flowed through it. “And then you freed me. By the Black Gate, I hated you for that mercy, though it was only to help yourself. That made it easier to keep on hating you.”
Iskra took a step back. She was unarmed. His sword was buckled at his side. “Yet Kethe and I still live. You haven’t moved against us.”
“No.” He looked up at her then, and his smile betrayed such depths of self-loathing that Iskra stopped cold. “And I found that I could hate something more than your husband—myself. When Kitan told me to kill you and yours, I told him to go to Hell.” He laughed. “But his words echoed my own resolution. A resolution I’ve failed, that I’ve been too weak to uphold. Ever since then, I’ve cursed myself for being an oath-breaker. A coward. A traitor to her memory.”
Iskra didn’t know what to say. She stood still, eyes wide, watching. Listening.
Tiron lowered his gaze to the ground once more.
“It grew unbearable. I couldn’t kill you. I couldn’t even kill your daughter when she attacked me. The Ascendant knows I wanted to fulfill my oath, but—I just couldn’t. So, today, I decided to find release. I’d die killing this demon. I’d die, and then I’d be free of my oath.” He smiled, and it was an awful grin, mocking and derisive. “And I failed to even do that. Here I am—and what’s worse, when I thought I would die, when I was sure it had me, when the damned thing lifted me up to bite off my head, I thought of you. Of you!” He looked up suddenly and glared at her. “What kind of man am I, to think of you when I should have only thoughts for my Sarah?” He rose to his feet. “I’m scum. Oath-breaking, faithless, wretched filth.” His words brimmed over with hatred. “I can’t even kill myself,” he said, and laughed weakly again before covering his face with his hands, shoulders heaving. “I can’t even die.”
“Ser Tiron,” whispered Iskra. She didn’t know what to do, whether to run away or move to him. Whether to stay silent or speak—but what words?
“No.” His voice was raw, his fury simmering beneath the surface. “Don’t say a damned word. I don’t want your pity or your scorn. I don’t even know why I came here, not any more. Maybe it was a need, a need to finally tell the truth.” His eyes searched the walls as if for an answer. “It grew inside of me till I couldn’t bear it any longer. But now it’s done. You know my shame. I’ll go.”
“Wait!’ She almost reached for him, but he whirled at the last, eyes blazing dangerously. “Wait.” Her mind raced. She was losing him. She had to speak. “You may have betrayed me in thought, but never in deed. You’ve served me well.”
He shook his head with disdain and turned again to go.
“But not well enough!” Her voice snapped like a whip crack, and he froze. “You came here to confess. Now I demand that you perform your absolution.” She felt a power rising within her, felt her shoulders push back and her chin rise. “If you think you can slink out of here like a worthless dog, then you are wrong. You are my knight. Mine! And I demand you serve me with the honor I deserve. Once you are done, then I will discharge you if you still wish to run, but not yet. You are not released, ser knight!”
Ser Tiron hesitated by the door, clearly aching to throw it open and depart, but finally looked over his shoulder. “You are mad if you think to use me further.”
“Perhaps, but I’ll do just that if it means saving my people.” She took a deep breath. “You said Kitan came to you. That he asked you to kill me.”
Ser Tiron nodded reluctantly.
“We can use that.” Iskra felt excitement quicken her pulse. “He’ll be leading Laur’s force.” She looked down, staring through the floor, sensing her opportunity. “You will meet him halfway. Claim that you were en route to the Talon.”
“I will?” Ser Tiron sneered. “To what end? Challenging him in combat?”
“No. He asked you to kill me. You will tell him that you have done so.”
Ser Tiron narrowed his eyes. “He’ll demand proof.”
“And you will give it.” She paused. “I will cut off my hair. You will take it to him, soaked in blood. And Ser Wyland’s family blade as well. You will convince him that you slew me, slew Ser Wyland, and then fled.”
He turned at last to fully face her. “But why? What will that gain you? He’ll still come to make sure.”
Iskra smiled. “But his guard will be down. He’ll believe you. He’ll enter Mythgræfen unaware of the trap we’ll be laying for him.”
“What trap?”
“Go fetch Ser Wyland, Ser Asho, and Kethe. We need to discuss this, now.”
He stiffened.
“I won’t tell them what you told me.” She held his gaze. “I’ll simply tell them that you came to me immediately after Kitan approached you. I’ve kept this knowledge quiet to safeguard your honor. But now that I have a plan, it is time to speak openly of this matter.” Ser Tiron hesitated, and Iskra took a step forward. “Go. Now.”
Ser Tiron clenched his jaw, looked down, and then nodded once. He turned and shoved open the door. It was dark outside, and he disappeared into the street.
Iskra hugged herself tightly, trying to keep her jangled nerves and fear and hope contained within her frame. She moved to the window and stared outside into the narrow street. It was a slight chance, a narrow opening, but it was all that they had, and she and her war council would need all their cunning to craft a doom from it for Ser Kitan Laur and his men.
CHAPTER THRITY-FIVE
Tharok gasped. The world contracted to a point, and suddenly there was nothing more than this dirty compound, the filthy lowland kragh, the Sky Mother above, and his mount between his legs. He felt hunger, anger, and an ornery stubbornness. The clamor in his mind had ceased. The thoughts of campaigns across the mountains into Tragon lands were gone. He had known why he had given the World Breaker to Porloc, but no longer. It had been something about setting him up. But why? How could giving Porloc the greatest weapon ever wielded by kragh be a way to set him up?
Tharok turned the circlet around in his h
ands. The answers lay within it. All he had to do was slip it on and it would all come roaring back. Why he had led the Red River tribe down the Chasm Walk instead of through the wilderness so as to surprise the Orlokor? Why he had pressed to be recognized as Porloc’s blood son? All of it lay within the dull metal, the answers to every riddle. He thought of the highland kragh in the slave market, and stowed the circlet in his pack.
Tharok then swung one thigh over the saddle and slid to the ground. He landed heavily on purpose so as to feel the shock of impact through his bones and enjoy the thud. A lowland kragh approached, dressed in metal armor, and bobbed his head. The thing was half Tharok’s size, his skin as green as grass. No tusks. No dignity. No strength or presence. An Orlokor kragh.
“Tharok-krya,” said the guard, “I’m to show you to your quarters.”
“And if I don’t want to go?”
The kragh stopped and blinked. “What?”
“What if I don’t want to go to my quarters?” asked Tharok. “Are you going to force me?”
The kragh blinked again, and began to back up. “No, of course not.”
“Are you sure?” Tharok took a step forward. “No? Then get out of my way.” He almost wished the lowland kragh had pressed him, shown some backbone, but of course he hadn’t. Tharok reached behind his saddle and drew his great half-moon axe and slipped it over his shoulder. “I’m going to look around. If Porloc wants me, tell him I’m in town.” He walked right at the guard, who quickly scrambled aside.
Tharok strode out through the main gate and into the city of Gold. What a name. It said everything one needed to know about its warlord. He stared around with fresh eyes, bereft of all the information that had flooded through him before. A myriad of scents, a constant hum of noise punctuated by the occasional distant roar or clangor of metal, tents and huts on every side blocking his line of sight. Faded crimson, mud-splattered yellow, bright green skin, rutted streets, the haze of countless campfires filling the air. This was strange, this was novel, and the equanimity with which he had viewed it before while under the spell of the circlet was gone. Nothing here was natural; all of it had been made by hand. Great paths led between the buildings and huts, and everywhere was the stink and clamor of kragh filth. Standing in the entrance to the compound, Tharok rolled his head around his neck, causing the great vertebrae to snap and pop, and then set off.
First he went to a tavern. The highland kragh were given to drinking fermented goat’s milk during certain key revels, but he had heard from the older kragh that the lowlanders made liquids with more fire. He took a coin from his pouch and set it on the warped wooden bar that was set before the hut’s entrance.
“What will it be?” The kragh behind the bar was small, bald, and suddenly very nervous.
“Give me whiskey,” said Tharok, leaning forward. “And no small cup like you lowland filth drink from. Give me a cup fit for a highland kragh.”
The bartender paused. There were other Orlokor drinking at the bar. They all turned to stare at him. Tharok turned to stare them each in the eye. “Anybody have a problem with my words? Speak up, now. Don’t be scared.”
The kragh looked at each other and then away, shaking their heads.
The tender came back with a wooden mug filled with clear liquid in his hand. “Here you go. Whiskey fit for a highlander.”
Tharok took up the mug and wrinkled his flat nose. It stank so bad that it made his eyes water. Then, without further thought, he tossed the whole mug back, pouring rank tar fire into his gullet, searing the flesh, sending a shuddering, coughing roar through his whole body. He couldn’t breathe, and with a gasp threw the mug to the ground.
The bartender began to laugh. Tharok grabbed him by the throat, smashed his head down onto the bar and held it there. He leaned down and stared the kragh in the eye.
“What,” he growled out, voice like soft rolling thunder, “is so funny?”
“Nothing,” gasped the bartender. “Nothing.”
“Were you laughing at me?”
“No, no, I wasn’t.”
“Oh. Good.”
The fire was spreading through his belly like dragon’s fire. He released the tender, who immediately began to stand back up. As soon as he was standing straight, Tharok cupped the back of his head and smashed him down so hard, he drove the kragh’s head right through the wood, splintering the bar in half so that both sections of wood collapsed to the ground, sending cups and bottles crashing to the dirt.
Tharok stepped back. The bartender lay still in the ruins of his bar. “Good,” he said again. “Because I’m not laughing.” Then he gave lie to his words by throwing back his head and letting a belly laugh ring out. Turning, he saw that kragh had stopped and were staring. There were no highlanders amongst them, so he shrugged and began to walk down the street, leaving them behind.
The street led him down past endless houses and huts until it opened out into a marketplace. There was the human weapons vendor. Tharok approached by shoving smaller kragh aside; they quickly realized what was happening and stepped out of the way. Tharok moved right up to the front and stared the human in the face.
The male was slender like a sapling tree, his hair fine like flax, his features delicate like melting ice that would crunch easily under the heel of his boot. Pale skin, eyes blue like the Sky Mother herself. There was no strength in him, and he looked old and wrinkled. These were humans? thought Tharok. These were the leaders of the plains, the makers of empires and wonders?
“How can I help you, mighty warlord?” The human spoke passable kragh, though his throat had difficulty with the harsher sounds.
Tharok lifted his gaze and stared past him at the weapons on display. There were fine metal blades as long as his arm. Axes, daggers, spears, all gleaming like weapons from a dream, like fish caught from the freshest stream.
“What’s to stop me from taking what I want?” Tharok placed both hands on the board and leaned forward, putting his weight on the wood so that it creaked.
The human stepped back and lifted an eyebrow. “Other than the laws of the marketplace?”
“I don’t know of any laws.”
“They’re simple. Porloc has given us right of trade. You break them, you offend Porloc.”
“Porloc isn’t here.”
“No, but Grax is.”
“Grax. Who’s that? A highland kragh?”
The human took a whistle from around his neck and gave it a sharp blow. Tharok could barely hear the sound, but that was of no matter. From around the back of the hut emerged a hulking figure who would have been easily twice Tharok’s height if it had been standing straight. Even hunched over as it was, it loomed massively. It was no highland kragh. It was wearing a carapace of blue stone embedded into the flesh all along the back of its arms, shoulder and back. Its skin was a pale blue, and its face was a nightmare. A massive nose nearly hung over its lips, its tiny eyes were piss yellow, and its bat ears stuck out nearly a foot on each side of its great head. It was dragging a hammer behind it so large that Tharok doubted he could lift it.
“This is Grax,” said the human with a quiet smile. “He helps keep things in line.”
“By the Sky Mother,” breathed Tharok. “That’s a stone troll.”
“Indeed,” said the human. “My stone troll. Now, are you going to give me trouble? If not, buy something or get lost.”
Tharok eyed Grax. It stared back at him without animosity or much interest. It was surreal to see it here, amongst these tents in a marketplace. Stone trolls were beyond rare, almost legendary, and terrifyingly dangerous. Even up on the peaks where he lived he’d not heard of anybody seeing one in decades. Some whispered that the stone trolls were gone altogether, faded into the dark like other monsters of yore. Stories spoke of their delight in shaman stone, but how they hungered even more powerfully for flesh and would waylay travelers by throwing great boulders at them as they tried to make their way over narrow passes.
Tharok almost decided to lo
osen his axe, almost decided to test how fast this Grax could move, the fire in his belly urging him on. But he held back. “No,” he said, and backed away slowly. Grax’s eyes followed him, and it pulled the hammer off the ground and hefted it with both long, ropey arms. Tharok nodded, once, twice, and then moved away altogether.
By the peaks, a stone troll. Under the control of a human. A marvel.
Tharok wandered, looking for the other market, unsure how to get there and not wanting to ask. For an hour he simply moved from stall to stall, pausing to marvel at a deep well, to consider fighting a handful of belligerent lowlander kragh, until he finally fetched up before the slave gallery.
Ah, yes, this was what he had been looking for. The hour was growing late, and the number of slaves on display was greatly diminished. There were three Tragon kragh, their foreheads branded, their faces broken and bruised. Who knew where they would end up. The human female was also there, swaying where she stood, so weak she could barely keep her chin up. At the back, a silent shadow, stood the highland kragh. Nobody had bought him. He was of prodigious size, larger even than Tharok, and his skin was nearly coal black. His heavy shoulders and deep barrel chest hinted at his strength, but he stared fixedly at the ground and made no move to assert himself.
Tharok raised his hand and beckoned the slave owner over. The Orlokor kragh came rushing over, eager to please.
“Why is this highland kragh enslaved?”
“I don’t know why. He was delivered to me a week ago by his tribe. He was of the Urlor, and as you can see, is in great health. He could do the work of five Orlokor.”
