by Phil Tucker
“Don’t tell me things I already know. Why has he not been purchased?”
“He’s not… he’s been problematic. A couple of offers were made, but he gave them trouble, so they were withdrawn. I’m going to sell him for a pittance to the humans if nobody else makes an offer.”
“How much.” Tharok phrased it not as a question but a flat statement.
“Him?” The slaver’s eyes gleamed. “For you? A bargain. No more than two gold.”
Tharok didn’t question or haggle. Instead, he took his pouch and simply handed it to the Orlokor. “Here. Put the balance toward freeing any other highland kragh that come through your hands. Now release him.”
The Orlokor stammered, opened the pouch, and quickly nodded. “Yes, yes, but I can’t just release him. He’d run away. Here, I’ll give you the key—”
Tharok grabbed the slaver by the throat and lifted him from the ground. “I said, release him.”
The smaller kragh gurgled in Tharok’s grip and waved frantically at his assistants, who rushed forward to remove the shackles from the great kragh, who had watched all this with a neutral gaze. The metal shackles fell heavily to the dirt and the kragh stepped forward, rubbing his wrists.
Tharok released the slaver and then, on a whim, pointed at the human woman. “Her as well. She comes with me.”
The human was so weak she could barely understand what was happening to her. “Am I to go free?” she asked as she was unbound, trying to focus on the kragh. “Xavier? Has he come for me?”
The highland slave sniffed deeply and stepped up to Tharok. “You bought me.”
“No,” said Tharok. He wasn’t used to having to look up at anybody. “I freed you. Your fate is your own now. Go your own way.”
The highland kragh frowned. “Your name, your tribe?” His voice was so deep it was akin to boulders shifting deep within the earth.
“Tharok, warlord of the Red River tribe. You?”
“My name and tribe are behind me now.”
“Then give yourself a new name and find yourself a new tribe. And don’t shame yourself by being enslaved again.” Tharok turned to consider the human woman. She was looking around in confusion, clearly overwhelmed and gripped by terror. Tharok grunted, reached out, and took her by the arm. “Come,” he said. He was already regretting his decision.
A sudden blow crashed into the back of his head with such power that it pitched him forward. The human woman screamed as his world exploded into bright white light and he crashed to the ground, face digging deep into the dirt.
A deep growl rumbled in his chest. He slowly pushed himself up to his knees, then his feet, and only then turned to stare at his assailant. The highlander slave was rubbing his knuckles pensively, watching him with hooded eyes. Tharok’s growl deepened, and he drew his axe. “It is time for blood.”
The highlander slave shrugged, his massive shoulders rolling. “You weren’t watching your back.”
“So? Is that an insult to your honor?”
“No. But it was easy to take you down. Where is your clan? You walk alone, making it easy for me, and so easy for anyone else too.”
Tharok paused, the dull beat of his bloodlust demanding that he move, that he attack. He forced himself to hold back. Perhaps the circlet really was rubbing off on him. “Come to your point.”
“I’ve nowhere to go. No name. No clan. No tribe. No honor.” The massive kragh eyed him carefully. “I think you have no clan. Like me. So I’ll watch your back.”
Tharok continued to growl just beneath his breath, but the other kragh’s words resonated. It was true; no highland kragh would walk such a place without his clan around him to watch his back. Despite his resolutions a week ago, he’d not built a clan of his own. There was Toad, there was Barok, but for the most part he’d stayed aloof, caught up in his thoughts. The urge to bury his axe deep in the other kragh’s chest dissipated, and he shook his head to clear the last of his rage and lowered his weapon.
“Come up with a name, then.” The sheer size and darkness of this kragh spoke of his having been a warlord in his own time, but he showed no desire to challenge Tharok. In time his skin would lighten and his mass would shrink, bringing him in line with his new station. Tharok would watch him carefully until that happened, however.
“Why did you buy the human?” The freed kragh stared at the gold-haired woman, who was hugging herself and staring at them both with fear.
“I don’t know.” He examined her. She was emaciated, small, weak, and fragile. It was a miracle that humans managed to live for so long. A mixture of curiosity, pity, and disdain tugged at him. “Perhaps I want to learn more about humans from one of them instead of from the tales kragh tell each other. Bring her and follow me.”
Still blinking away tears from the blow, his head still ringing, he turned and slipped the axe over his shoulder. It was time to get back to Porloc’s.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Ser Tiron guided his pony using his knees, letting it amble forward at its own pace. The animal had been loaned to him by Gunnvaldr’s son, who’d told him it was called Biter. A good name. It spoke of spirit. It had yet to have a go at him, however; perhaps some dull instinct told the pony that biting this particular knight would prove a dangerous move. The beast was a far cry from his old destrier, Night Fall, but still Tiron found himself growing fond of it. There was something about its implacable manner, the way it seemed to have no difficulty making out the trail despite the thick and tangled mane that fell across its eyes. Rugged—that was the word. Biter, Tiron had decided, was the kind of pony that would lower its head and march all the way to the Black Gate if it had to.
Luckily, that wasn’t in the cards. The road from Hrething down to the lower plain where the Talon beetled out over Lake Crescent was little more than a cart trail, two ruts carved deep into the rock with a hummock of long grass between them. The slope had at first been precipitous, and Tiron had leaned as far back as he’d been able, grasping the cantle with both hands behind his back to stop from sliding right over the pommel, but finally he’d given up and just walked alongside Biter. He could have sworn he’d seen a victorious gleam in its eye somewhere beneath its mane. Still, a few miles down, the path had begun to level out, the mountain slopes pulling back and turning into merely steep, verdant hills. Easier riding, and they’d made better time.
Not that Tiron was in a rush. There was something about this preceding time before his encounter with Kitan and his men that appealed to him. There was nobody to speak to but Biter, nobody to judge his thoughts and doubts. Since his confession to Iskra he’d felt all hollowed out, like the rind of a fruit from which all the flesh has been scraped. He’d spoken barely a dozen words this past week, and instead focused on his swordplay, training each morning for several hours and then spending the afternoons and sometimes the evenings hiking around the shores of Lake Mythgræfen, working up a sweat, pushing himself till his thighs and calves and lungs all burned.
In Kyferin’s dungeon, the isolation had been a way to cultivate his hatred; his solitude had been active, made bearable by hopes of revenge. Now he saw how true solitude could be its own goal. If he spent enough time away from people, he could stop thinking so many thoughts. The busyness in his head would subside. He’d felt it during his long hikes, long stretches of time when he stopped reflecting or remembering, and instead was simply aware of the trail, of the obstacles before his feet. Given enough time, he supposed, maybe his very sense of self could merge with the wilderness, till he was little more than another dangerous predator, living from sunrise to sunset, resting, eating, and spending hours gazing up at the sky or following the passage of the wind across the forest canopy on the lower slopes.
Biter stopped walking. Tiron blinked and looked down at him. “Move.” He got no response. He flicked the reins, then dug his heels into Biter’s incredibly rotund sides. The animal was wider than a feasting hall ale barrel. Still, the beast failed to respond. “Hey. Get a move on.”
Th
en he heard it: the subtle clink and tramp of soldiers on the move. Coldness crept through him like mist over a dawn lake. He slid a leg over Biter’s saddle and slid to the ground. He was wearing his hauberk over leather armor, but had left his plate behind. It fit his story better. He drew his sword and stepped out before the pony.
“If this gets ugly,” he said over his shoulder, “run. Don’t wait for me. Save yourself.”
Biter shook his head from side to side, causing his mane to flop around, then lowered his muzzle to crop the grass.
The sound grew louder. Ser Wyland had been right: Kitan was coming up straight and center, making no attempt to hide his approach. Of course, he thought his attack a surprise; why would he waste his time skulking through the woods this far out from the Hold?
The first men came around the curve of the path and halted at the sight of him. They were on foot and clad in hauberks similar to his own, their gleam bright in the morning sun. Mail coifs covered their heads, and each was wearing a tabard bearing his own heraldic emblems. Knights, then, not common militia. They were marching four abreast. As one, the lead men drew their blades and unslung their shields. Tiron saw the Golden Vipers standing at the front, twin faces mirroring their hope for violence.
Voices called up from behind, and one of the lead knights raised his hand without turning, demanding silence. They took their time examining the woods to both sides, which was wise; a common ploy would be to hide archers in the shadows and stop the column with a lone man up front, turning them into vulnerable prey.
“Good morning,” called the lead knight as he stepped forward and broke rank. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked to be in his mid-thirties, which meant he had enough experience to avoid rash or novice mistakes. His face was broad and marked by a pale vertical scar that twisted one eye almost closed and his mouth into a permanent sneer. Still, Tiron liked the look of the man. He had the air of a competent professional.
“Decent enough,” Tiron called back. “You lot marching from the Talon?”
“We are. I am Ser Dirske, of Laurel Mount. And you, ser knight?”
“Tell Ser Laur that Ser Tiron would like a word. Tell him I bring good, if bloody, news.”
Ser Dirske raised the tip of his blade. “How did you know Ser Laur marches with us?”
“An educated guess. Don’t make me spell it out and finish making you look like a fool. Now tell him.”
Ser Dirske stood still, lips pursed, studying him. Clearly, he was not a man used to being insulted. Too bad; insults came too easily to Tiron’s lips. To cement his confidence, Tiron slid his blade back into its scabbard.
Ser Dirske spoke over his shoulder to one of the men, and Tiron saw the message being passed back. A sizeable force, then. Ser Wyland had guessed thirty knights with perhaps twice that number in men-at-arms. Ser Tiron had thought it the opposite: twice the knights and half the soldiers. No matter. He’d find out soon enough.
Five minutes passed, and then a familiar figure pressed his way forward. Ser Laur had chosen to march in his plate armor, it seemed; the man was either preternaturally resilient or a complete fool—or both. His enameled blue plate gleamed like the ocean beyond Zoe’s harbor, and the other knights opened a path for him with respect. His sumptuous blue cloak nearly brushed the dirt, and his hand was resting on the pommel of his sword.
“Ser Tiron!” His voice was cheerful and pitched to carry. “It’s a pleasure to see you. And all alone? Don’t tell me you were en route to the Talon?”
Tiron took hold of Biter’s bridle and began walking forward. “Meet me halfway, Kitan. I’ve words for you alone.”
Kitan turned to his men and spoke a command; Tiron saw protest form on Dirske’s lips, but then the man bit them back. Reaching up, Kitan removed his helm, then tucked it under his arm and marched up to meet Tiron perhaps two dozen yards ahead of his men.
“Nice pony,” said Kitan. “How good is he at a charge?”
“Biter?” Tiron turned to consider him. “Vicious. Once I can convince him to get moving. Now—” He turned, opened a saddlebag, and pulled free a bloodstained roll of blue cloth. “A gift for your father.”
Kitan narrowed his eyes as he took the cloth. “A gift, you say? He does so like gifts.” He carefully unrolled it, and stopped at the sight of the auburn braid. It was as thick as a man’s wrist and coiled like a snake, easily two feet in length. One end had been rudely hacked, and most of it was dark and crusted with blood. Kitan took it up in one hand, then brought it to his nose and inhaled. His eyes remained locked on Tiron. “Ah. I recognize that scent.” He pressed the braid to his lips, then dropped it back onto the cloth. “Now, this will merit a true reward. But why only hair? Where is the pretty head that goes with it?”
“Crushed and lying in Mythgræfen Hold.” Tiron felt something coalesce within him, a dangerous and cold certainty that he would see this man dead. “I’m not in the habit of carrying body parts with me.”
“A pity. Did you ruin the face?”
Birds called overhead and flitted through the branches of a mountain ash, causing their shadows to dart across the trail. The light was syrupy gold, the colors of the forest around them rich and vibrant or drowned in shadow. Surreal, to be surrounded by such natural beauty while faced with such a man. Tiron shook his head slowly. “No. I struck her from behind while she was praying. Why?”
“While she was praying? Oh, that’s rich.” Something entered Kitan’s eyes then. “And good. I’d like to see her face, cold and still. Eyes wide with that final flash of pain and shock. And Father demanded I bring back her head. Nothing less, not even this golden braid, will suffice.” Carefully he wrapped the hair in the blue cloth once more, but made no sign of giving it back. He glanced down at it, then back up at Tiron with a smile. “A keepsake. Now, what of the others? I’m sure they objected to your revenge.”
“They did. Or would have, if I’d let them.” Turning again, Tiron reached for the hilt of a blade that was strapped alongside the saddle, and drew it forth with a rapid flourish. Kitan immediately stepped back and drew a foot of his sword before stopping. Tiron smiled. “What’s wrong, Kitan? Afraid of me?”
Kitan bared his teeth in what might have passed for a smile. “No, just amused at your sense of humor.” He straightened and took the sword. “I know this crest. It’s Ser Wyland’s.” He paused, eyebrows raised. “Well, then. You are a most thorough man. Ser Wyland is dead?”
Tiron nodded. His disgust made it easy to look hard and cruel. “He is. I left thereafter.”
Kitan sighed. “A pity, really. Ser Wyland might have offered me some amusement. I’d hoped for a good fight to justify all this effort. Still, you’ve done well. What of the others? The squire? Kethe?”
“They live. I didn’t set out to massacre the whole group. They must still be back at the Hold with the remaining three guards and Brocuff.”
“Only three? I thought ten guards went through.”
“They did. Seven of them had a change of heart upon seeing their new home. They disappeared two days in.”
Kitan nodded. “Pathetic. And you? You were marching to the Talon?”
Tiron’s smile was wry. “You promised me a reward and a pardon. I was coming to collect.”
“Let’s delay that reward a few days more. Lead us to Mythgræfen. We need to kill the survivors and collect some heads. Then I’ll send you back with a token force to feast and celebrate to your heart’s content. Agreed?”
Tiron frowned. “A token force? You’re not returning to the Talon?”
“No, unfortunately.” Kitan sighed dramatically. “My father must be most displeased with me. He’s tasked me with rebuilding the Hold and garrisoning it properly as once our family used to do. Foolish of him. He’s spending a small fortune on gathering supplies and hiring craftsmen to send through the Raven’s Gate two weeks hence. It seems he takes our old family legends quite seriously.”
Tiron laughed harshly. “He clearly doesn’t take the legends serio
usly enough. Hasn’t he heard how every force that’s tried the same has disappeared?”
“Oh, yes.” Kitan’s eyes were cold. “But he’s no fool. He’s petitioned his Grace for assistance. With the kragh refusing to take the field, the Grace is only too thankful for the several hundred men-at-arms we’ve sent to help with the Agerastian siege, along with the knights we’ve promised once this expedition has been seen to. In exchange, he’s lent us one of his Virtues.”
Tiron’s mocking grin froze on his face. “His what?”
Kitan shrugged, as if it were of no matter. “Makaria, the Virtue of Happiness. He rides with us. You’ll meet him soon enough.” He paused. “What’s the matter, Ser Tiron? You look almost ill.”
“Nothing.” Tiron forced himself to relax, though his mind was racing. A Virtue? Riding with Kitan? “It seems a waste, though, sending a Virtue here when the Agerastians are at our throats.”
Again, Kitan shrugged. “My father has promised his Grace access to something high up in these mountains that has secured his unwavering support. Regardless, it is done. Now, shall we proceed? The quicker we reach our destination, the sooner you can return to civilization.”
Tiron nodded. By the Black Gate, he thought. A Virtue.
They marched all day back up the trail and camped in the lee of a granite ridge. Tiron marched at the front of the column, leading Biter by hand, and didn’t catch a glimpse of the Virtue until dusk had fallen. He kept to himself and was ignored by the others, which suited him fine.
It felt strange to be on the march again in the company of knights—the comments, the conversation around the campfires, the jokes and abuse, the rasp of whetstones on blades and the hurrying of squires as they cleaned and cooked and served. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was amongst the Black Wolves once more, marching toward some distant encounter. But these men were not striding into battle; rather, they were headed toward a slaughter. Which made the familiarity strangely nauseating; it was hard to hate these men when they made the same kinds of jokes or offered familiar complaints.
