by Phil Tucker
She crossed her arms and bit her lower lip. If she stopped, if she considered the commands she was giving and to whom she spoke, it would make her want to remain cowering inside this cottage.
But that wasn’t who she was, and perhaps never had been. Even during her life at Enderl Kyferin’s side, she had resisted him, had fought for her independence as best she could. Perhaps this final role was a natural conclusion to the defiance she had always exhibited toward what fate had sought to apportion for her. Perhaps she really was a leader, the Ascendant’s Grace, the figure who was sending forth their last desperate hope.
She studied her vague reflection in the window. The people outside seemed to believe that, at any rate. Tharok did, and he had led tens of thousands to one victory after another.
Iskra took a deep, shuddery breath, pressed her hands to her stomach to still the butterflies, and forced an icy stillness over her thoughts.
Enough. The plans had been made. The die had been cast. Now it remained for the others to see them through to victory.
She would await them at the Black Gate, and either they would prevail, or this was the final hour of the Empire.
CHAPTER 32
Tharok
A ponderous lethargy filled his body, leaving his limbs leaden and his head hanging heavy on his neck. It wasn’t that he was without fire; he could feel the explosive energy building within him, a bubbling cauldron of might that was waiting to erupt. Rather, it was that in this moment, here amongst these humans, fighting to save their Empire, cut off from his own kind and without even a real sense of who he was, he felt lost. Alone. Confused and bereft of purpose.
He made his way to Maur, who was lying in the high grass, her head cushioned on a rolled-up cloak, one hand resting on her chest, her brow furrowed with pain. Tharok sat cross-legged at her side, then reached out to curl a strand of her hair that had snagged along the seam of her lips. He hesitated, then touched her brow, wishing he could smooth away the lines there, could ease her pain in some manner.
The excitement of the humans behind him was palpable, and even here, with his back turned to them, he could sense their feverish purpose, but he felt outside it, beyond it.
Would the kragh lands be impacted if they failed to contain the demons? Perhaps.
The wind gusted about him, causing the grass to lean in and whisper mockingly on all sides, and he hunched his shoulders. Who was he trying to fool? Of course the kragh lands would suffer. Demons were hunger incarnate. They would devour the world until they were stopped.
“Maur,” he whispered, studying her face once more in the gloom. “Where are you? I need you, even if it’s to curse my name and call me a fool. Come back to me. Come.”
She did not respond.
Tharok sighed. Who was he, now? No longer the Uniter. If anything, he would go down in history as Ogri had, as a Destroyer come again. How many kragh had died for his dreams?
No, not his own, the circlet’s.
Thousands upon thousands. Their bodies lay torn and rotting everywhere from the walls of Abythos to the hallways of Aletheia, all because of the circlet’s desires.
“You warned me,” he said softly to Maur. “Do you remember? That my ambition would lead only to ruin. If only I’d the strength of mind to listen. To resist.”
But he’d been so convinced, had believed so firmly in the circlet’s arguments. He’d spoken with sincerity, which was why he’d been able to lead so many to their deaths. His desire to escape the human yoke had been true.
And still was. He shifted his weight so he could take in the Virtues and the Consecrated, and the shadowy figure of the Ascendant beneath his tree. The idea of his kind being manipulated once more by these people galled him. If they won this coming battle, if they defeated Zephyr and banished the demons, would the world return to what it had been? Would human merchants come through the Portal of Abythos once more with shaman stone to control the fate of the kragh tribes, pitting them against each other to keep them weak and subservient?
Yes.
Especially after what Tharok had wrought. They would never trust the kragh now, not after how close he’d come to destroying their Empire. This alliance was temporary at best; after the dust had settled and the kragh had returned home, their situation would be even worse than before. One Destroyer could be considered a fluke. Two? Measures would be put into place. The humans would never again risk being attacked in such a manner.
Tharok turned away, his hands curling into rock-hard fists. His invasion had not only failed, had not only unleashed a demonic horde upon the world, but it might ultimately lead to even worse circumstances for his people.
He had failed in every regard.
He growled deep within his chest, a primal anger suffusing him. He wanted to lash out, to strike something or someone down, to give vent to his frustration, but that very urge made him ridicule himself.
Go ahead, act like a beast. Rend the earth and hack at a tree. That will solve all your problems.
Tharok subsided, chin resting on his palm, and gazed down at Maur. Perhaps she would have the wisdom to lead the kragh out of the horrendous mess he had created. It would take some doing; a Wise Woman leading as Uniter would cause as much damage to their culture as Tharok had done. Wise Women were the opposites of the shamans, their influences balanced out, their guidance leading all kragh through the seasons. For one to step up and rule was unheard of. But perhaps that was what was needed.
He tried to imagine Maur’s homecoming, her entrance into Gold. With Flamska dead, she would have to ride in on a mountain goat.
Would she be able to heal the land? Force the warlords to listen to her once the war was over? Resist the humans? If anyone could, it was she, but the scope of the task was too enormous.
Tharok could envision the future all too well: bickering, factionalism amongst the tribes, coalitions forming as of old, Maur trying to hold the center even as the kragh dispersed back to their homelands. Humans arriving bearing gifts and shaman stone. Maur’s words falling on deaf ears, the other kragh claiming that she should advise her own tribe and not theirs. Raids. Humans whispering in greedy ears.
Blood would flow. Maur would protest, but even with World Breaker, there was only so much she could do.
Chaos. War. And when their people were turned completely against each other, the humans would march in to subjugate them for good and ensure that no future Destroyer could ever rise again.
Tharok’s heart was pounding. This was his legacy, his gift to his people.
And where did he fit into this future? Should he seek to unite his people once more in anticipation of this coming attack? Could he? Without the circlet, he didn’t think so. That, and he’d have to depose Maur. Looking down at her harsh, beautiful features, he knew she would fight him.
Could he kill her for his people? No. The very idea was abhorrent.
What, then? How could he avoid this fate? Or was thinking along these lines the kind of hubris that would lead only to greater damnation? But he had to do something. Exact a pledge from the Ascendant in exchange for his aid? Perhaps. But there was no time. They were due to leave in minutes. Once — if — the demons were defeated, it would be too late to make demands.
Tharok ground his fists into his eyes. If he had the circlet now, it would illuminate the path to victory. The clarity, the incisiveness, the logic — how he missed it! He felt as if he’d been forced out of a brilliant, sunlit room into a dark, cramped cave with only a guttering torch for light.
Think. How would he have approached this problem with the circlet on? What had he learned during his time wearing it?
Start with the basic truths. He wanted to prevent the humans from seeking retribution on his kind. Who could control them? Only the Ascendant. How could he compel the Ascendant? No, wait… The Ascendant was himself a servant. He bowed his head to their religion, their Ascendancy. What their religion demanded, the humans did.
How, then? How to get Ascendancy to protect t
he kragh? It didn’t recognize them as having souls. No kragh could ascend and be reborn in Bythos. They were outside its protection.
Or were they?
Tharok sat up straight and extended his palm. The White Song poured forth a pure, delicate note of music, and a flicker of white fire manifested in the air. He stared at it intently.
No kragh had ever been able to summon this flame before. He’d meditated before the White Gate itself but had received no answer as to why he’d been chosen. But perhaps he could use it.
He took Maur’s hand and squeezed it. “You’ll see, Maur,” he said. “I will undo the damage I’ve done. I will make things better. You’ll be proud of me. You will.” He grasped her hand in both of his, then placed it gently on her chest and stood.
This time, he moved briskly. Moved with purpose toward the Ascendant. His approach was greeted with wary looks; men and women moved to stand around the Ascendant as if they were afraid that even at this juncture, he might attack.
“Holiness,” he said.
The Ascendant opened his eyes. “Tharok.”
Tharok lowered himself to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground.
Whispers erupted on all sides.
“Why do you bow to me?” asked the Ascendant.
Tharok lifted his head. “I do not bow to you. I bow to Ascendancy.”
“I thank you for your respect,” the Ascendant said uncertainly.
“It is not just respect. I pay homage to my own faith.”
“You — you have faith in Ascendancy?”
“Yes.” Tharok rose up to sit on his heels. “I do.”
A flood of emotions crossed the Ascendant’s face, from surprise to confusion to wariness and regret. “I’m afraid that your faith cannot be reciprocated by the Ascendant, Tharok. You are kragh. You and your kind cannot ascend through the cycles of being to pass through the White Gate.”
“Are you sure?” Tharok could sense the crowd growing around them even though he never took his gaze off the Ascendant.
“Of course,” the Ascendant said softly. “It was so decreed by the first of my name, though in gratitude for the service the kragh rendered him, he established open ties with your people so that we might all mutually benefit from trade and cultural exchange.”
Tharok’s jaw tightened. Trade and cultural exchange. His refutation fought to emerge, a flood of angry, caustic words. But winning that battle would lose him the war. So, instead, he bowed his head.
“I bow, of course, to your greater wisdom. But if kragh cannot ascend, if we cannot pass through the White Gate, then please, holy one, explain this.”
“Explain... what?”
“This,” Tharok said, and closed his eyes.
Need filled him, a desperate yen to undo the chaos and damage he had wrought. To prevent countless wars in the future, to protect his people from further abuse. He summoned the White Song, called it forth, and its glorious tones rose within him like a spear of sunlight. But he was not content. Instead, he dove down to meet it and pass through it into its source.
Images flickered through his mind. He saw the White Gate, its fire lashing at the silver armature that held it in place as if whipped by a furious wind. He saw the hall, the steps rising to the Gate’s base; saw himself climbing up, face lifted, mouth parted in awe. Saw white fire extend from the Gate toward him, a sinuous snake to match the ur-destraas’ own fire.
I was chosen, he thought. Chosen so I might end centuries of war, abuse, and slavery. This is my true calling: healing the rift between our people. I tried with fire and the sword, and failed. Now I must try with faith and words. In this, I shall succeed. Nothing will stop me.
Tharok felt himself expand, felt his sense of self grow diffuse. There was only the White Song, the image of the White Gate.
For this, I will abase myself. For this, I will sacrifice my faith in the Sky Father. I will do anything to make amends. I will bring the White Song to my people. I will teach them the ways of this new religion, and in doing so protect them forever from the predations of humanity. Just as I destroyed our culture, so shall I rebuild it. And through me will come peace everlasting.
Those were his last thoughts. In their place came the White Song, which was now no longer music but rather the roaring, rushing sound of a waterfall. It felt as if he were listening to the very heartbeat of life itself, as if he were immersing himself in the great river of existence.
“Stop,” came a voice.
Tharok wanted to go deeper, to drink ever more of this richness, to burn within the purity till all his weaknesses and faults were gone. He wanted to erase his own sense of self in its glory.
“Stop,” the voice came again. “Please.”
Tharok opened his eyes.
White fire limned every surface. The trees were incandescent torches of silver and pewter. The grass was an ocean of surging flame. His own body was glowing with a hallowed light, and as he held up his hands, he saw the darkness of the medusa’s Kiss receding, fading away up the lengths of his arms.
“Stop,” said the Ascendant, and his voice tolled like a bell through the depths of Tharok’s mind. “Please.”
Tharok blinked. He felt sluggish. The closest he’d ever come to this level of sublimation was when he’d communed with the trolls for a night bonded with the very essence of the mountains.
Stop? Stop what?
“You’re destroying yourself,” said the Ascendant. “You will destroy us.”
Tharok inhaled, his ribs creaking. How could he stop? One might as well wish for a river to cease running. But he became aware that the others around him had been reduced to hazy shadows, their forms wavering in the dancing flames.
He exhaled, and in doing so retreated from the Song. Stepped back from the river’s edge and allowed its grandeur to recede. The rushing roar faded, and the white fire slowly returned to him, leaving grass and root, man and woman unhurt.
With a sigh, he slumped forward.
“That was... astonishing,” said the Ascendant. His voice seemed to come from a far distance. “I knew that you claimed to hear the White Song, but such purity, such channeling... I’ve never seen the like.”
Tharok cracked a smile in the manner of the humans, pulling his upper lip back from his teeth and exhibiting his tusks. “There. That was your proof. I hear the White Song. I’ve been blessed by the White Gate. Mine is a soul embraced by Your Holiness. I claim the right to follow the path of Ascendancy.”
The Ascendant rose to his feet and glanced over at his Virtues. They looked as shocked as he did. He cleared his throat, seeming to become aware of the stares, then nodded. “Very well. I cannot refute your claim, nor would I wish to after seeing such a display. Should we survive this attack on the demons, then we will confer further and see how Ascendancy may best accommodate your entrance into its cycles.”
“My entrance, and that of my people,” Tharok grunted, rising to his feet. “If I can wield the White Song, then they can, too.”
“I — yes. Perhaps. There is much to discuss. But yes.” The Ascendant looked pale, as well he ought to. His religion was being changed before his very eyes.
“Good,” said Tharok. “Now, I’m ready to fight. And if we survive, there will be peace everlasting between our people.”
“We have much to discuss,” said the Ascendant, though his voice faltered. Tharok could sense that he wished to undo his promises, but it was too late. “But now is not the time.”
“No,” said Tharok. “But I will seek you out when this is done. I promise you that.”
So saying, he turned and marched through the ranks of the humans, who were gazing at him in awe. He walked back to Maur’s side, and part of him hoped that she would be awake, would have seen his display of power; would, perhaps, have been healed by it.
But Maur lay still, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow.
Tharok sat down heavily at her side. He reached out and drew World Breaker from the scabbard she’d fashioned.
Its power and strength flooded into him, but he released it and laid the weapon across his lap.
Then, gently, he took her hand once more and bowed his head.
CHAPTER 33
Audsley
Erenthil was avoiding him.
Audsley had sought to speak with the Artificer numerous times, only to be foiled by a timely teleportation or Erenthil’s walking away while in conversation with another. At first, Audsley had thought it natural, what with the press of events, the urgency of the moment, but as he chased the Artificer, he began to realize that the man’s evasions were on purpose.
Audsley staggered to a stop, fighting to control his breath, and watched as the Artificer floated up and across the meadow. This was becoming ridiculous. They were moments from a world-defining battle, and here he was, chasing the man like an enamored stable boy after a scullery maid.
Why was Erenthil evading him? Did he sense the thrust of Audsley’s intentions?
Fighting down his frustration, Audsley surveyed the meadow. The moon had limned it in gentle silver, turning the recumbent form of Draumronin to a gleaming mound, causing the medusa’s stirring hair to look like churning water at the base of a waterfall, making blades gleam and faces look pale.
He would have to press the issue. What Erenthil wasn’t revealing was as important, if not more so, than what he’d already shared. If he wouldn’t speak with Audsley, then the magister would have to discover the answers on his own.
He set off determinedly through the knee-high grass and forged a path toward the cottage. No guard stood without, and the door was ajar, so Audsley passed inside with ease. Here, warm crimson and yellow hues from the fireplace lit the space, and the smell of wood smoke gave it a comforting atmosphere.
Audsley moved to the stairs at the back and, casting a nervous glance around the empty cottage, descended to the workspace below.
The warm light from above was replaced by the clear, steady white glow of the embedded wall sconces. Heart racing, he hurried to the first set of shelves and set to examining them.
