by Phil Tucker
A great, roaring wind blew through his mind, sending his thoughts blowing before it like old leaves, and for the briefest of moments Tharok felt his thoughts expand to take in the entire world, arcing over the land like the heavens themselves. Then everything contracted and fell spiraling and sinking into his skull till he was himself yet so much more.
Yes, Kyrra had grown dangerous and had played false with him. His grasp of power over the kragh was nominal; she threatened to undercut his authority by combining the roles of the Wise Women and the shamans in her own personage.
Tharok sat down, rested his chin on the base of his palm and tapped his fingers against his tusks. She was gathering power. Recruiting the shamans to her side and destroying them as a faction in the process. What was the Kiss doing to them? Tharok hadn't felt any need to change his name after enduring it, but Golden Crow had claimed a new identity. Had the Kiss affected him differently because he was attuned to the spirits? Had it warped him more powerfully? Kyrra had to know, for she was deliberately pursuing this path, subjecting shamans instead of warlords to her Kiss.
Acolytes. Priests. She was creating a cadre of her own elite followers.
Tharok snorted. There was little chance that Death's Raven would take orders from him. He had to learn what the effect of the Kiss was. Understand its consequences, so that he could defeat or wrest the shamans to his own will.
They had to move. Remaining in the shadow of the Shattered Temple was only playing into Kyrra's nascent authority. But where to? His plan to subjugate the Tragon brothers and then sweep out to claim the Hrakar would take too long; that was a campaign that would be months if not half a year in the making, and all the while Kyrra would be consolidating her power. No, he had to move fast, keep her off-balance, throw his kragh into war, where he could shine as their leader.
Which meant moving down into the lowlands and engaging Porloc and his ten thousand Orlokor.
Risky.
Tharok rose and began to pace, his exhaustion forgotten. The City of Gold had no defensive capabilities, but he couldn't simply swoop in and murder Porloc. Doing so would fracture the Orlokor, and while he had no doubt he could mop up their clans and force them to join his own, that would take precious time. He had to force a mass merging, but how?
And if he succeeded in absorbing the Orlokor, would that be enough of a force to take on the entirety of the Empire? Ten thousand lowland kragh. A thousand five hundred highlanders. Fifty trolls. A medusa and her group of Kissed shamans. Was that enough to defeat the combined might of the humans, to overcome their castles and fortifications?
Tharok stopped, hands linked behind his back, and once again gazed down at the ruined wreckage of the temple. He needed to learn what Kyrra's new shamans could do. He couldn't destroy them out of hand, not yet. They might prove to be the decisive factor in tipping the balance against the humans, who were famously without shamans of their own.
The key question was this: Would her new shamans go to war?
Golden Crow and the others would never have done so. It was understood that shamans did not use their powers to dominate others; that they, like the Wise Women, were a neutral force. No shaman had ever used his spiritual powers in battle. But if Kyrra's acolytes agreed to...?
Tharok turned abruptly and started back down the goat path. He moved swiftly, thoughts churning, eyes narrowed. When he reached the base of the path, he looked up to the crowd of waiting kragh. There were a dozen warlords among them, uneasy and resentful at being made to wait, each with questions and concerns of their own. He would have to start a court. And for that, he needed symbols of his own power. A throne, perhaps. Rituals, music, the trappings of ruling that would make obeying him easier to swallow – in time.
"Dashor," said Tharok, moving forward and beckoning for the warlord of the Green Firs to approach. The others grumbled and fell in behind him.
Dashor was young, not yet bulky or dark-skinned like the other warlords, the leader of a recent merging of individual clans that had finally claimed the status of tribe. As such, he was perfect for Tharok's needs: resourceful, driven to prove himself, eager to please.
"Yes, Uniter?" he asked.
"Gather your warriors. I want the shamans taken down from their wheels and decapitated."
Dashor stumbled and fell back. Tharok didn't wait for him, knowing the young warlord would hurry to catch up. When he did, Tharok didn't give him time to speak. "They need to be put to peace. Their souls must be allowed to rise to the Valley of the Dead. Your kragh will do them great honor by ending their torment. If any seek to stop you, send them to me and carry on. Am I understood?"
Dashor made a sign to ward off evil spirits and nodded. "Take down the shamans from their wheels. Cut off their heads. Yes, Uniter."
"Good. See to it."
The young warlord jogged off to where his tribe was camped.
"Uniter," growled a deep voice from behind him, half-challenging, but Tharok didn't turn. He knew that voice: Uthok of the Falling Stones tribe. Massive, old, very respected. One of the most senior warlords present, and the leader of nearly two hundred veteran warriors. Tharok raised his hand, gestured for the warlord to join him, and kept walking.
There was a growl of annoyance, and then Uthok caught up with him. The kragh was large, but age had so eaten at his muscles that now he had a rangy look, hard-bitten and mean. His left tusk was broken, and his right eye had a milky hue.
"Your father would have taken counsel with us," said Uthok. "He would not have commanded change as you now do."
"I am not my father, and he was not the Uniter." Tharok stopped abruptly to turn and face Uthok. As large as the Falling Stones warlord was, Tharok was larger. Already he could feel his own frame absorbing the authority of his position – swelling, demanding food. For all that, Uthok was only a few inches shorter.
"Yes. But we should still summon a formal council. Last night was sudden. We must have time to deliberate your suggestions."
"There is no time, and they were not suggestions." Tharok stared down into Uthok's one good eye. Its expression was hard and flat. He won't be easily intimidated. "We break camp at midday and begin marching down the Chasm Walk. We move on the Orlokor."
The other warlords growled in surprise, and Uthok's eye narrowed. "Nakrok told us that you have become Porloc's blood-son. That you move to avenge your father against the Tragon."
"No longer. I now move to take back World Breaker. It is my blade. I will wield it. Then I will lead the kragh against the humans, with Porloc's thousands marching by my side." Tharok spoke those words with fell intent, leaving no doubt as to his certainty.
Uthok growled again and looked at the other warlords. There were perhaps three others of equal stature, and he was clearly gauging their response. Ithar of the Half Moons, wily and morose; Bokan of the Shattered Peaks, built like a grizzly bear and wearing the skull of one as a helm; and Jojan of the Black Clouds, perhaps the subtlest and thus the most dangerous of them all.
Tharok turned to face the assembled warlords. Enough of the most important ones were present that he could make his will known. "We strike camp today. The Convocation is over. It has succeeded; we are one in intent. We will march down the Chasm Walk to challenge Porloc and take his Orlokor. Then we will fall upon the human city of Abythos like a battle ax upon the head of a mountain goat. That is my will."
Several of the warlords growled once more. Bokan, Tharok was glad to see, nodded and reached down to pound the earth once with his fist. Ithar and Jojan exchanged a look, while Uthok shook his head. "You will attack your blood-father?"
"Listen to me, Uthok, and listen well." Tharok deliberately pitched his voice low, to force them to lean in. "The days of division are past. The barriers between tribes will fall, and with them, the need for special bonds to transcend those divisions. All kragh are now my blood-brothers, blood-sons, blood-fathers. As long as they join their ambitions to mine, we are family. We are one. But should any oppose me, should any seek
to undermine our conquest, then they become my enemy. And I will crush them, no matter who they are, no matter their prestige, their authority, their blood."
Tharok turned to rake them all with his gaze. "Am I understood?"
Again Bokan pounded the earth, and this time some four or five of the lesser warlords did the same. Then, crucially, Jojan crouched down and pounded the ground, not with enthusiasm but with a wary acceptance. It was enough. Uthok and Ithar stiffened, then nodded.
"Good," said Tharok. "Spread the word. Three hours from now, I want an avalanche of kragh pouring down the Walk. Our time here is done. There is no more need to remain at the temple."
He could see the questions on the warlords' lips. They were about to ask him about the shamans, but that was a question Tharok was not yet ready to answer. So he turned and strode away, toward the great riven entrance to the temple. A clear space had opened around its walls, as if no kragh wished to camp close to it and what was taking place within.
Understandable.
Tharok reached out and awakened his trolls. He couldn't see them, but he wanted them ready, just in case. Taking a deep breath, steeling himself, he passed through the entrance and entered the Shattered Temple.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Asho was walking at the head of the column. Stretched out behind him were some three hundred Bythians, their white hair luminous in the gloom, looking like refugees from some ancient war. They were wearing heavy packs, carrying baskets; some had mining tools slung over their shoulders. Infants and the elderly were riding in covered wagons hauled by their urgolthas. They had with them all that they could carry, as much weight as they could bear and still move, still run, still sprint for their lives if the worst should happen.
Asho felt a tremulous sense of pride and fear as he looked back over the column. They'd left last, allowing the other nine cohorts of the First Shift to gain plenty of distance ahead of them. The plan was simple but still nerve-wracking: at the very last, they would turn aside from the road and forge across the Badlands, hauling the infants and elderly out of the wagons and abandoning their urgolthas for a deadly sprint across the black rock. Then they would move down into the Labyrinth, following the turns to the Portal, needing only to stay ahead of any pursuit.
It was a reckless plan, but they'd not been able to devise better. Asho had feared that the cohort would balk at the very last, but they'd come. They'd placed their faith, if not in him, then in their leader, and had dared to break centuries of slavery and close-minded thinking to strike out toward a new future.
Asho looked beyond them to where the Blade Towers rose, their cruel tips scything into the shifting aurora. Were there Ennoians and Sigeans crying out and pointing at their departing column, racing to launch a battalion to come ride them down?
His smile turned hard. Let them. They would find nothing in the Badlands or in the Labyrinth but the occasional discarded item. Let them think that the entire shift had thrown themselves into the depths.
Kanna was marching alongside him, an imposing pack towering over her head. She noticed the direction of his gaze and also turned to take in the view, and Asho watched her out of the corner of his eye. Her harsh features and customary frown made her appear much older than she truly was. How had she risen to such authority so quickly? Perhaps one day he'd find out.
"I think we're clear of the towers," said Kanna, lacing her thumbs under the straps of her pack. "We've come far enough that they can't catch up with us now." She squinted ahead at the entrance to the mines. "Let's just pray we're not intercepted by a Labyrinth patrol."
"Agreed." Asho shifted his own pack, taken from a stooped older woman. "How many of us are there, Kanna? How many Bythians do you think there are, all told?"
Kanna pursed her lips and looked back once more over the tumbled cubes that formed the endless sprawl of the slaves' quarters. "Hard to say. Three main shifts. Each composed of some ten work cohorts. Including family and children? Perhaps ten thousand of us. Perhaps more. Why?"
Asho didn't want to voice the foolish dream that had suddenly sprung into his mind. "Nothing. Just mad ambitions."
They were drawing close to the mine entrances. They'd passed dozens if not hundreds of similar entrances abandoned across the Badlands. Old mines, played out over the centuries. Not all the active mines were close to the Abythian Labyrinth, but Kanna had called in a favor and pulled a shift as close as she could get. Now they were getting close, and Asho stared for a while at the great entrance to the Abythian Solar Portal.
They reached a fork in the pale path where they should turn left toward their eventual destination, set close to the Great Cavern wall, but Asho instead turned right and began to move more quickly, leading the group behind him toward the Labyrinth. It was only a couple of hundred yards, but it seemed to stretch out toward infinity. All it would take now was a challenging cry, the sounding of an alarm, the pounding of feet as guards moved to intercept...
Nothing happened. Asho fought down a smile. After centuries of obedience, why would the Ennoians expect trouble now?
"All right," he said as they drew abreast of the familiar clump of rocks. "This is it."
Kanna nodded and turned to those behind her. "Pass the word back. This is it. Get the children and old folks out. Hurry!"
Asho slowed his stride to a crawl. He saw babes and toddlers being handed down from wagon beds, old people nearly crippled by a life of brutal labor being helped down right beside them. Judging the moment right, he turned left and stepped off the path.
It was rough going. The rocks were as treacherous and sharp as ever. Heart hammering, sure they would be called out now, he led them toward the clump of rocks. He fought not to look toward the Abythian entrance and strained to hear the first cry.
None came.
Overhead, agony vultures circled. An urgoltha lowed in confusion. People hissed and cursed as they trod over the broken rocks. They hurried on, covering the distance bit by bit. The clump drew closer, and Asho had to fight the urge to break into a run. Kanna's face showed similar strain in a clenched jaw and a gaze locked on their destination.
Asho jogged the last dozen yards, rounded the boulders and felt a ridiculously powerful surge of relief at the sight of the steps heading down. He'd almost feared they had disappeared. He knelt by the crack and drew his blade out, then turned to wave Kanna down.
The column was slowly swallowed as hundreds of Bythians marched down into the stairwell. Then... was that a contingent of guards leaving the main Abythian entrance? Alarmed, Asho waved people on. "Hurry! Go faster!"
The last of the cohort finally disappeared below ground. The six urgolthas were still standing in the path, heads swinging from side to side, placid and confused. A patrol of guards had reached them and were taking the huge reins in hand and pointing in Asho's direction. He turned and ran down the steps.
He'd given Kanna the directions, but he wanted to lead them himself. He slipped past the crowd, flashing a smile to those who called out his name, and when he reached the front, he buckled on his belt and gave Kanna a nod. There was no need for words. They rushed down the hallway, making good time now, their fear and hope joining to give them wings.
Finally, they burst out into the large cavern in which he'd confronted the two Ennoians. Both were missing, and nobody was in their place. Thank the Ascendant for the sheer scope of this place. Even three hundred souls could disappear into its depths. Asho hurried out and led the column down the cavern's length, then into the tunnel beyond. He wanted to stop and wave the people by, encourage and cajole them to move faster, but he had to be at their head. He had to open the Portal when they reached it.
At last they reached the bridge that arched out over the chasm. Asho had expressed his concern over their crossing it to Kanna, but she'd waved his fears away. Now, leading the first of the Bythians out over its delicate span, he realized that she was right: these people had been born here, had grown up treading on such treacherous expanses. They followed hi
m with the quiet confidence of mountain goats, and soon he was in front of the Portal itself.
"When I open this Portal, its surface will fill with what looks like black water. That's all right. Step through. You'll emerge into a huge room, a strange and frightening place called Starkadr. Don't panic. Just step aside to let the others through and wait for me to follow. All right?"
The Bythian at the front of the column was a wiry old man, his hands swollen and hard from a lifetime of labor. He simply nodded, his eyes gleaming as he watched Asho with something akin to skeptical amusement.
"Very well. Here we go." Asho turned back, took a deep breath, then spoke the name of the demon contained within the Portal. Immediately the rough, rocky surface contained within the arch flooded with choppy black ink. "There," said Asho. "Hurry through!"
The old man's humor was gone. Eyes wide, he stepped up, hesitated, then scowled and darted through. Next was a barrel-chested young man with three fingers missing from his left hand and a crushed cheekbone. Then came a hard-faced older woman with no shoes, and then a father holding a child in each arm. On and on they came, pausing as they waited for Asho's nod, some afraid, others excited, all of them gazing at Asho with newfound respect.
They didn't really expect this to work, he realized. Not in their heart of hearts. But still, they came. Still, they risked everything on the chance it might come true.
One by one, they shuffled across the bridge, heedless of the chasm's depths, whispering to themselves and watching wide-eyed as the Portal consumed them all. Every few minutes, it would close and Asho would hold up his hand so that he could invoke the demon once more, then again the black ink would flow between the arches and the Bythians continued their exodus.
Kanna stepped up, and Asho fought to keep his expression neutral. Gone was her customary skepticism. She formed the sign of the Triangle with her hands and looked at him with the same wonder as all the others.
