by Phil Tucker
The Siege of Abythos
Book 3 of the
CHRONICLES OF THE BLACK GATE
By Phil Tucker
© 2016 Phil Tucker
Cover art by Andreas Zafeiratos
All characters and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
Tharok placed his boot on the upraised tip of the rocky promontory and leaned forward, elbow on knee, to gaze down into the Shattered Temple. The wind at this height was cruel and perilous, gusting fitfully around him as if seeking to pull him to his death. The dizzying drop didn't scare him. His attention instead was fixed on the milling mass of kragh who were streaming into the ruined bowl of the Temple. Even at this remove he could hear the cries, the roars, the bellowed laughter.
Dusk was falling, and the sun had already dipped behind the ragged peaks to the west. Great bonfires burned and leaped where entire trees had been piled atop each other, their green needles sending up plumes of smoke as thick and soft as the underfur of a mountain goat. Tharok could smell the burning sap. Could sense the building excitement. Could divine the centers of power from how the hundreds of kragh were swirling slowly around different warlords far below.
The Grand Convocation had begun. It would run through the night, with different warlords making speeches and seeking to wrest the greatest support from the gathered kragh to their cause.
Tharok's Convocation.
Leaning forward, he narrowed his eyes. There. A huge mass of lowland kragh, gathered in a mass before the central stage. Where once kragh without number had been sacrificed to their ancient medusa goddesses, the most important warlords and chieftains now stood. One kragh alone stood on the ancient and riven altar.
Nakrok.
Tharok felt anger scald him like liquid fire running through his veins, and heard an ominous rumble sound behind him as if a landslide were about to begin.
He ignored it.
Nakrok had seized the moment. His lowland Crokuk, diminutive as they might be, were by far the largest bloc in attendance. Five hundred strong, armed with steel and dedicated to their warlord in a manner completely unlike the conditional loyalty of a highland kragh tribe.
Traitors.
His fury fed his blood lust. The time of reckoning was at hand. Tharok pushed off his knee and turned to gaze at the assembled figures behind him. It was an otherworldly sight, the very terror inherent in the great stooped forms filling Tharok with a shuddering sense of power.
Stone trolls. Fifty of them, standing anywhere from ten to thirteen feet in height, their rocky skins the palest blue, their shoulders and the backs of their arms encrusted with thick rock, their eyes an alien, acrid yellow. They stood immobile, watching him, not even flicking their great batwing ears, each bearing a club or simply a chunk of rock in their taloned hands.
Waiting. Ready. His to command.
There was no need for a stirring speech, for commands, for a rousing cry. Each one watched him with fixed intensity, connected to him through the power of the circlet he wore on his brow, believing him to be one of them, and in that faith allowing their actions to be dictated by his will.
Tharok turned, took a deep breath, filled his broad chest to its capacity, then leaped over the edge of the promontory and began his swift descent toward the Shattered Temple.
And the trolls came after.
He half-slid, half-ran down the steep slope of broken rock and scree, faster and faster, leaping occasionally over shattered boulders or out across a flat plane of stone before jumping down once more.
The trolls were an avalanche, their massive feet carving furrows in the loose rock, their balance perfect, a wall of animated blue stone that came behind him. Tharok didn't look back. The slope began to level out. The broken walls of the Shattered Temple rose before him, imposing even today in their ruinous state, cracked and rent and yet still challenging the sky with their empty alcoves where statues of medusa had once stood, in some places rising taller than the highest fir trees, in others toppled altogether, the huge blocks covered in moss and lichen.
Tharok slowed to a jog and then to a walk. His heart was thudding, a rhythmic pounding akin to the fell beat of a war drum. There were hundreds of highland kragh milling around the outside of the temple, and those closest to him had sensed his approach and turned to gape.
There were no bonfires here at the outer edge. He couldn't tell which tribe these kragh belonged to, but he didn't care. Taking a deep breath, he reached out with his mind, sensed the kragh before him, felt them with invisible hands, and then crushed their wills. Roughly, callously, he opened a path before him, forcing those who might have impeded his path to stumble and fall as they threw themselves aside.
As the kragh fell, he released them so that their howls of fear might herald his approach, and smothered the minds of those next before him.
Panic spread before him like wildfire. Highland kragh dominated the peaks, were brave to a fault, were peerless warriors and furious foes – yet the sight of the stone trolls following Tharok in a rough arrowhead formation sent a primitive terror coursing through their veins. The crowd melted back, crying out warnings, lifting weapons, but none dared oppose his entrance.
The first bonfire appeared off to his left, and in its fitful, hellish light he saw the expressions of his kind as they gazed upon him in awe and fear. Eyes wide, broad mouths working, they fell back, their pebbled skin lit with the sinuous light of the flames. Lower-ranked chieftains stepped forward to call out challenges, but he ignored them, moving on, none daring bar his approach for the stone trolls that loomed behind him.
The walls of the Shattered Temple arose before him, the stone partially melted here from where Jaemungdr, Ogri's dragon, had melted a path for the ancient Uniter to enter. Fitting, thought Tharok, for me to enter through the same path.
The press of kragh grew thicker within the temple itself, and though word of his approach was traveling before him, the sheer press of numbers made his passage forward slow. Tharok reached out, over and over again, and seized the minds of those who would stand before him, forcing them aside with contempt.
Yet these kragh were not the lowest of the low that had faced him inside; the deeper he pushed into the Temple, the more important and stronger the kragh he faced, the higher-ranked, the more experienced and strong-willed.
A roar of outrage filled the air and echoed up to the open skies above. Many didn't understand what was taking place, their confusion at this gross interruption akin to righteous fury. Those before him bristled, raising their axes and spears, yet still none dared oppose him; still none were able to arrest his passage.
Tharok's pulse was racing. He felt borne forward on a wind of destiny. He heard roars and then screams behind him and to the left where foolish kragh had tried to test the trolls and were destroyed for their temerity. More screams, and now the trolls were swinging their clubs with greater frequency, forcing the press of kragh to give way, never slowing, never feeling even an inkling of fear.
Tharok fed on that glacial certainty and strode on. The faces before him grew familiar: the Red River tribe, his old followers. He ignored them. On he strode, and now the stage itself rose into view, Nakrok and other warlords staring at him wide-eyed as he forged ever closer.
"What is this madness?" Nakrok's voice rang out over the roiling crowd. "Stop them! Kill them!"
A flash of a familiar face: Barok the blademaster. The Red River fell back in disarray, clearly not wanting to confront their former warlord, melting back until a wall of Crokuk lowlanders was revealed, their brows raised in wonder and horror at what they were facing.
&nbs
p; Tharok stopped, the trolls immediately doing the same. The roars and cries thundered around them, echoing off the ruined walls, the clans and tribes shoving each other to clear space around him while those behind fought to get closer and see what was happening.
The Crokuk were pitiful. Barely five feet tall, bandy-legged, bald-headed, without tusks, they were like children, their skin as green as moss and their hearts without the rage of true highland kragh. Yet their weapons were of high quality, and they stood in orderly ranks, spears bristling, shields at the ready.
"Tharok?" A wizened old kragh stepped to the front of the stage. It was Golden Crow, the Red River shaman. "Is that you?"
Tharok raised his chin. Oh, he knew how he had changed. Gone was the dark green hue of his skin, near to black, as befitted a kragh of his rank. Kyrra's kiss had changed that forever. His skin was the matte black of charcoal, marked by crimson glows at the raised edges and at the cracks like embers in a dying a fire.
Slowly the roars grew muted, kragh straining to hear what he would say, many of them still unable to tear their gazes from the stone trolls that stared out placidly from behind him. Nakrok shook with barely repressed anger while other warlords stepped up beside him, some ancient, some young, all fighting to project confidence and authority as they gazed upon the impossible.
"You thought me dead," said Tharok, and his words were for Nakrok alone. "You turned my tribe against me. You sought to murder me and mine. And you should have done so, Nakrok of the Crokuk. You should have made sure to kill me true, for now your evil has returned to claim your head."
"Crokuk!" Nakrok's voice was a shrill scream. "We are strong! We are many! Swamp this fool! Crush him and his monsters!"
The phalanx before him crouched, each individual warrior waiting for his brother to move first, but Tharok didn't give them a chance.
Again he thrust his mind forward. He could dimly sense the swirling multitude of kragh who filled the Temple, the teeming hundreds upon hundreds, nearly two thousand souls, each a pinprick of feverish light just asking to be snuffed. Instead, he focused on the two dozen minds before him, the weak wills of the Crokuk warriors. Oh, it was terribly easy. The Crokuk warriors stiffened, rose jerkily to stand tall, dropping their shields and spears, and then edged aside, opening a channel before him directly to the stage.
"Kill him!" Nakrok was jumping up and down in a frenzy of terror, pointing directly at Tharok. "Now! All of you! Charge!"
And the Crokuk, to their undying credit, did as they were ordered. With a hoarse roar they ran forward, spears leveled, congregating into the center as they shoved through the gathered crowds, hundreds of them, each giving the next one confidence, pressing in from all sides.
Tharok stepped back and unleashed his trolls.
They roared, straightening their curved spines so that they rose to their true height, some almost eighteen feet tall, their voices the dire warnings of rocks careening down the slopes, so deep and powerful that Tharok felt their reverberations in his chest. As one, the trolls plowed forward, swinging their clubs, and where they did the Crokuk were crushed, some lifted clear off their feet and sent flying back against their tribemates. Fifty stone trolls moved to engage five hundred Crokuk, but the tide was turning. Tharok could feel it. The highland kragh, seeing violence at last unleashed, felt their own terror turn to rage.
Tharok laughed. He could sense the red tide of fury trying to drown his own mind, the itch to seize a weapon and lose himself in the fray. The highland kragh from countless tribes were now pressing forward to attack the stone trolls.
Fifty against five hundred? Victory was possible. Fifty against two thousand?
Death.
Tharok felt not a flicker of fear. He stood still, hands on his hips, and gazed up over the heads of those around him to where Nakrok was standing on the altar. A foolish grin of delight had spread over the lowlander's face, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames of the closest bonfires. All around Tharok madness reigned as trolls bellowed and swung and crushed and kragh screamed back their own defiant fury.
Carnage. It was a matter of moments before the sheer press of kragh overcame his trolls, swept over them like a stream flooding its banks and drowning the rocks in its midst.
The bonfires seemed to burn higher, their flames spiraling up to challenge the rising moon. The insides of the temple's warped walls glowed a ghastly crimson, huge shadows distorted and fighting across the surface of the stones. Blood sprayed through the air and whipped across the side of Tharok's face. A troll roared and went down. Another collapsed beneath the weight of the bodies.
Still Nakrok gloated, high on the altar, almost capering with relief and glee as the vast might of the Convocation turned to crush Tharok and his trolls.
Now, thought Tharok.
And as if on cue, as if it had been awaiting his mental command, the sound of a rattle filled the air. It was a sound that echoed in the soul of each and every kragh, a primordial reminder of their ancient selves, a sound that reached past every thought and higher process to the primitive core of their oldest selves.
The rattle was a whispering promise of decadence and death, of ecstasy and pain, a reminder that kragh were nothing more than animals to be used and killed and devoured at the pleasure of their true masters.
The medusa.
From behind Nakrok arose a sensual, sinuous form, undulating in mesmerizing fashion. A figure from legend, a creature from their oldest myths, one that had been revered as a goddess within these very walls, who had taken her tribute in blood and devotion on the very altar that stood before her.
Her coils were brilliantly colored: eye-stinging yellow along her belly, blending into the most lurid of crimsons up her sides and giving way to pitch black on the overlapping carapace running down her spine.
Tharok's gaze, however, lingered on her upper body. Sculpted into a vision of female perfection, she was naked, powerfully muscled, her skin the color of darkening coals, a smoldering, dusty red with a fan of soft yellow scales rising up across her abdomen and between her breasts. A mass of snakes wreathed her face, hissing and undulating as if they were caught in underwater currents. And her eyes... Her eyes were as pitiless as the sun, a glaring nullity that burned his vision so that he was forced to lower his gaze, bright motes scoring his sight.
Tharok stilled his trolls. As one, they drew back. The kragh had gone silent, awed and terrified, shrinking back and dropping their weapons as they gazed up at the resplendent horror.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Nakrok turned around. He was directly beneath Kyrra, his lowlander form dwarfed by her wicked majesty. Tharok almost felt pity for the warlord, almost wished that he could reach out and pull the kragh away. But it was far too late for that.
Kyrra gazed down upon Nakrok and smiled. Even now, after having spent almost two weeks in her presence, Tharok felt a deep pull in his belly, a spike of longing and despair at the sight of her beauty. He knew Nakrok felt the same; any instinct that might have led him to leap aside or save himself had ben frozen by her visage, and he simply stood there, overwhelmed and struck dumb.
Kyrra reached down and caressed Nakrok's cheek, tilted his chin up, and then her eyes flashed, a glimpse of terrible brightness flaring in her pupils that branded Tharok's eyes and caused those around him to whimper and turn away their faces.
Tharok blinked and rubbed his forearm over his face, but he already knew what he was about to see. When his vision cleared, he saw Nakrok frozen, his light green skin an opaque gray, his entire form petrified in place.
A hush filled the vast Temple. Tharok could actually hear the crackle and spit of the huge bonfires. No one sought to impede him as he strode through the chaotic ranks of the Crokuk and hauled himself up onto the stage.
Tharok ignored Golden Crow's horrified stare and turned to gaze out over the crowd. Two thousand kragh stared back at him. A few groans filtered up from the wounded, but otherwise the vast mass was frozen, as if they had all been turned to stone as we
ll.
"A new age is upon us," bellowed Tharok in his avalanche of a voice, so powerful that it rang from the very walls. "A new era! I am Tharok, warlord of the Red River, son of Grakor, and I tell you now, the old ways are finished. The old rivalries are gone –"
"Depravity!" Golden Crow's cry cut across Tharok's boom with the shrill clamor of outrage. "Monster! You bring that heinous creature into our midst? Shame! You are no kragh! You are anathema!"
Tharok turned to face the old shaman, not hurrying, knowing that thousands were watching his every move, that now the true danger had arrived. Golden Crow had been shriveled by the passage of time, was stooped and clad in the mangy skin of a black bear, but beside him stood another half-dozen shamans, ranging from the obese Crokuk shaman to a cadaverous young kragh festooned with bones. He could feel the weight of their sightless eyes upon him, could sense the spirits being whipped into a fervor around their slender bodies.
"Shamans!" Tharok pointed at them. "You cannot fight the inevitable. Kyrrasthasa and her kind have returned to stand amongst us, and with them a path to the great old ways –"
"Horror!" The obese Crokuk's voice was a guttural croak that still managed to make Tharok's own heart flutter with fear. "No words! Nothing can excuse this!"
A fourth shaman, gaunt and scarred, shook his staff, which was topped with a wolf skull. "The spirits weep! The spirits scream! Sacrilege! Anathema!"
The huge crowd of kragh began to stir as if awakening from a stupor. Tharok fought to hide his fear with a pitying smile. "You are relics of a bygone age. If you will not join me, then you must be destroyed."
Golden Crow lowered his chin, his whole body shaking. "You will not find us easy prey, monster. You or your demon goddess!"
The crowd was growing restive, voices rising to murmurs. More shamans were making their way forward, leaving their clans and tribes as they fought to reach the stage. Tharok cast a quick glance over the crowd. How many might there be? Perhaps a dozen more?
