The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  Kyrra hissed as she studied him, a low and pensive sound. She was a fitting opponent for his brilliance. Tharok kept his expression neutral, his eyes locked on her own, showing no fear. She knew that they were now at odds, knew that he might be lying to her – but would she understand the true reasoning behind his strategy?

  Death's Raven leaned on his gruesome staff. "The shamans will unite against us. Of that, there is no doubt. Even now the spirits fly to them, wailing of our coming."

  Kyrra never looked away from Tharok.

  He placed his hands on his hips. "It is time for war, Kyrra. As I promised you, we shall defeat the Orlokor before they have time to gather their strength. We will sweep down on them while they slumber in Gold, and then press on to destroy the human city of Abythos."

  "Very well, warlord." Kyrra's voice had lost its petulance. That had been nothing more than an act, then. "We will be ready to move. I shall hold a ritual before the horde to bless our venture."

  "Most fitting, Kyrra. I will let the warlords know that you are doing so in here. If any wish to delay their leaving to attend, they are welcome to."

  He began to walk away. Kyrra's silence was heavy behind him, and he could feel her gaze burning between his shoulder blades. He fought the urge to hurry. When he was finally outside the Temple, he let out a deep sigh and pressed the bases of his palms against his eyes.

  Nok scowled. "That medusa is going to destroy us."

  "She's going to try." Tharok dropped his hands to his sides. "I mean to prevent that from happening. Come: I need to speak with the Red River. There is much to do."

  Nok fell into step with him. "You are our warlord. They will follow you down the Chasm Walk."

  "I'm not going down the Chasm Walk," said Tharok.

  Nok almost tripped. "You're not?"

  "No. Come. I will reveal all to our tribe when we are gathered."

  The kragh parted before them, many bowing their heads, some even pounding the ground with their fists, but they all wore a look of wariness if not fear on their faces. Nok led Tharok to where the Red River was camped, isolated from the other tribes, a small group compared to the might of Uthok's or Jojan's followers.

  Tharok let out a roar as he approached, a summons, a claim of mastery, and Nok lent his voice to the cry. Immediately, the Red River kragh turned out of their huts or rose from where they'd been crouched beside their fires. Tharok strode forward into the camp, nodding to some, clapping others on the shoulder, but moving with purpose. That purpose reassured his tribe; though they were wary, they felt his leadership and returned his nods.

  "Barok!" The one-armed weapons master had been conversing with Rabo, another respected warrior from their tribe. "Rabo!" Tharok called out. "Both of you, follow me. Nok, go fetch Shaya, then humbly ask the Women's Circle to attend as well. We gather in my hut. Go!"

  It was as if the Red River had been stunned into apathy by his absence, and his return and roared commands put fire back into their step. They may not trust me, he thought. They may not like me, but they know that I am their warlord.

  Soon, everyone was gathered inside his hut, the largest in the camp. The Women's Circle stood to one side, united in their anger and disgust, their eyes slitted and their arms crossed. Rabo and Barok stood with Nok on the other side, while Shaya, the pale human Tharok had rescued along with Nok at Porloc's slave market, appeared to be the only one who was glad to see him.

  He gave them no chance to ask questions. He began speaking the moment the tent flap was closed. "What is done, is done. I have returned, and I was only able to do so with the medusa's help. Without her, I would be dead, and my dream of liberating our kind from the humans would be dead with me."

  "Then you should have died," spat Iskrolla, the oldest of the Wise Women. "What have you unleashed upon us? What have you done?"

  "I have done what was needed. Not long ago, I was a slave to the former warlord of the Red River. Now I not only lead our tribe, but I have two thousand kragh following my banner. I have accomplished everything I set out to do!" His voice was just shy of a bark. "There is nothing I will not do for the glory and honor of our tribe and our people! Which is why I tell you this: I am going to stop the medusa from perverting our kind. I am not going to let her return us to the old ways."

  "So you say," said Rabo, sitting on a wooden chest. His voice was quiet, his gaze penetrating. "Yet she is gathering worshippers about her already. Our shamans are dead. You do not seem to be in control."

  A murmur of agreement went around the tent.

  "Kyrra is dangerous beyond even my understanding," said Tharok. "I underestimated her power and ambition. But what is done, is done. I will not apologize for my mistakes, but instead rectify them."

  "How?" Iskrolla stamped her walking stick against the ground. "Words! Words, as Golden Crow stands before the medusa, changed – destroyed – become an abomination!"

  "Golden Crow is dead. That thing is not him. It will die before we are done, and I shall lament the loss of our shaman in time." The kragh around Tharok began to hiss their displeasure, but he overrode them. "We are at war! Did you think our rebellion would be without cost? That we could change our ways, that we could unite and become free of human meddling without a single death? Open your eyes! Golden Crow has died for our cause. More will die! You might die, Iskrolla, or I! We shall grieve for him, but we shall continue."

  Barok rested his hand on the pommel of his curved blade. "How are you going to defeat her, warlord? She will turn you to stone before you get within a hundred yards of her."

  "Yes," said Maur. "The medusa were driven away by our shamans. Without them, how can we oppose her?"

  "She is cunning beyond measure," said Iskrolla, with something akin to grudging admiration. "She struck down the only ones capable of defeating her before they could gather their strength."

  "I am capable of defeating her," said Tharok, his voice cold. "And we shall do so by keeping her off-balance and not allowing her to consolidate her grip on our people. We march in three hours to descend the Chasm Walk. I have told her and the warlords that we will do so as to catch Porloc unaware. That if we wait, if we strike at the Tragon and Hrakar first, Porloc will rise up, gather his shamans, and meet us in battle. We kragh would destroy ourselves in the greatest war of our kind."

  There were grudging nods all around.

  "That is what I have told them, but that is not what we will do. Nok, you and Shaya are to take our fleetest mountain goats and descend the Chasm as fast as you can. You are not to rest till you reach Gold. There, you will tell Porloc of our coming."

  "What?" Barok scowled. "What madness is this?"

  "I want Porloc to martial his ten thousand Orlokor and gather them in one place. I want them lined up and ready for battle at his great wall." Tharok smiled. "I want our two thousand kragh to reach the wall and realize that we cannot win."

  Iskrolla clutched at her face. "I cannot handle your insanity. Do you toy with us for your own amusement, Tharok?"

  Rabo was studying Tharok carefully. "There is a reason for your choosing this. I can almost sense it. You want our kragh to taste defeat?"

  "Yes, because I shall not be with our horde. It will be led by Kyrra, who will have grown confident in my absence. When she reaches the wall and finds it overwhelmingly defended, her leadership will crumble. And in that moment, I will strike."

  "Strike?" Maur's voice had grown tense with curiosity. "How so?"

  "I am going up to the Five Peaks with my trolls. I need to redress the balance between Kyrra and me. Currently, we are at a stalemate. Her shamans, my trolls. I need to tip the odds in my favor. I will return from the mountains with a new weapon. A weapon that will overpower the Orlokor, that will demonstrate my mastery over Kyrra and cement my place as the leader of the horde."

  A thoughtful silence filled the tent. Kragh exchanged glances.

  Krilla, the largest of the Wise Women, gave a doubtful shake of her head. "What if Kyrra uses her new shamans aga
inst the wall?"

  Tharok shrugged. "Then she loses them, and Porloc loses a few Orlokor. All the better for us. Now, Nok. You and Shaya are not to stay in Gold. You are to press on with all haste toward Abythos."

  Shaya had been a pale ghost at the back of the group, a slender shadow behind Nok. She stepped forward now, eyes wide. "Do – do you still want me to go to Bythos?"

  "Yes," said Tharok. "Once we have absorbed the Orlokor into our ranks, we are going to fall upon Abythos and destroy it. I want you both to have been working in Bythos all that time, riling up your people, encouraging them to revolt, so that the humans will be unable to reinforce their soldiers in Abythos. Can you do that for me, Shaya? Can I count on you?"

  Shaya's expression grew firm, and she nodded decisively. "Yes, I can. And I will."

  Nok rumbled. "It won't be easy to get through Abythos. Porloc has ordered that no kragh accept Gate Stone in exchange for serving the humans."

  "You have lived in Abythos, Nok. You will have a human with you. Together, I know you can get through. I will be assaulting Abythos in..." He paused, gauging the time he needed. "Six weeks. Have your revolt in full swing by then."

  Barok laughed. "Six weeks?"

  "Yes. Two weeks to scale the peaks. A week to absorb the Orlokor. Three weeks to march on Abythos."

  Iskrolla shook her head. "You believe yourself clever, but you cannot even calculate distance and time. Two weeks to the peaks, two weeks to return. A month, then."

  "No, old one." Tharok grinned, showing his tusks to best effect. "Two week to the peaks. No time at all to return. You will see. Nok, Shaya, I need you to leave now. Barok, Maur, you are to lead the Red River in my absence. I am going to speak with the other warlords before I depart, but I will leave as soon as I see the tribes heading toward the Chasm. Are there any questions?"

  Again, his kragh exchanged dubious looks. Only his having pulled off the impossible already made his plan seem at all feasible to them.

  "Good. Prepare the Red River to leave. I must speak with the warlords." Tharok turned to the tent flap, then hesitated and turned back. "But I promise you this. I am your warlord. I fight for you. I am Red River. I am Tharok. We will defeat the medusa, we will unite the kragh, and we will wage a war such as the humans have never seen. This, I promise you."

  Rabo reached down and punched the ground. Nok and Barok did the same, and Maur gave him a stern nod. Iskrolla muttered, but Tharok could tell he had won her over. At least for now.

  Outside, he stopped and released a deep breath. A crucial step had been taken. The Red River was a key element in his plan, and they had been set in motion. Now, to confront Uthok, Ithan, Jojan and the others.

  He felt a cold and calculating joy. Everything was once again going exactly as planned.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Audsley emerged into the rooms beneath Mythgraefen Hold and shivered. Passing through Starkadr had become an unutterably dismal experience, with each shadow seeming to hold a hint of movement, the flash of a wing, the glint of a jeweled eye. Each time his heart leaped and peered closer, however, he'd realize it was nothing but his imagination; his firecat was nowhere to be found, and his hoarse calls, in a voice broken with emotion, had produced not even the quietest of mhrkaos.

  Shoulders slumped, Audsley shook out his sleeves and adjusted his hair. How Aedelbert would have enjoyed taking the Aletheian social world by storm with him! He would have been the perfect accomplice, sly, but not malicious; subtle, but not mendacious; elegant, but not proud. Well, perhaps a little proud, but didn't he have cause to be?

  Audsley sighed, suddenly dejected. The animation which had fired his steps suddenly seemed more ash than fire. He patted his reinforced shoulder pad where Aedelbert was wont to perch and felt his breath hitch. He'd replenish the bowls of water and food that he'd left out in case Aedelbert had any trouble finding the sleeping quarters they'd stayed in last time, with their stocked kitchen filled with delicacies.

  "One day, my dear Aedelbert, I shall cleanse myself of these demons, and you shall find me fitting company again."

  But not just yet, whispered the Aletheian demon, his withered face appearing in Audsley's mind's eye.

  Shush it, he thought angrily, and then realized he was being watched. The doorways to the side rooms were filled with Bythians who were staring at him curiously, children as well as adults.

  "Oh, hello." He tried for a smile. "I'm Magister Audsley."

  The Bythians whispered to each other and faded back into their rooms. Peering from where he stood, he saw that the former studies were packed with pallets, entire families crammed in together cheek by jowl. "How strange. An eruption of Bythians."

  Tapping his chin, Audsley strode forward, circling around the dark patch where Kitan's life blood had bled out onto the stone. Nobody had seen fit to scrub it clean, he saw. Ah, well! Perhaps Iskra had deemed it a sharp rebuke to all who would dare corner her with a knife.

  He moved up the stairs, round and round, and then out into the storage room. There he stopped, taken aback. "Oh, my, we have been industrious." The last time he'd seen the room, it had been near empty, Kitan's confiscated goods pushed up against one wall. Now it was packed with building materials, crates, barrels, and who knew what else.

  He saw a pale flash out of the corner of his eye: a malignant little creature, hunched and vicious, running away through a wall with an apple in its hand. Audsley smiled. "Yes, good to see you too, Ser Naugrim! Say hello to the missus!"

  Had he once been terrified of the little pests? No longer. Now, they reminded him of past adventures, his first true accomplishments. Finding himself a little cheered, he picked his way through the piles and out into the courtyard. That too had changed – perhaps twenty tents had been pitched around the aspen trees, several of them glowing from the light of candles lit within them. Voices pitched in low conversation blended with each other, along with snores, whispers, and the occasional giggle.

  Audsley stopped short. "The Hold is proving bountiful! More Bythians? I step away for a few days, and suddenly it has become the most populous spot in all the mountains!" He felt a moment's indignation at not being informed as to what was going on, and then brushed away his annoyance as pure irrationality.

  He walked carefully along the edge of the courtyard, but not carefully enough; he kicked a tin or pot of some kind and sent it clanging across the flagstones. "Oh!" His cry of alarm was nearly as loud. "I am sorry! My apologies!"

  Heads popped out of the closest tents. More Bythians! Audsley forced a smile. "Good evening! Welcome to the Hold. Um, I'm not a thief, I promise. Ha ha, but might a thief not say that?"

  The Bythians looked at each other and then back at him. Audsley's smile turned into a grimace, and he quickly hurried into the Great Hall.

  "I scarcely recognize the place!" He stopped, taken aback. "Wood paneling! Fire pits! Trestle tables! And what interesting tapestries." He walked over to the closest one. "Agerastian, perhaps? Wonderfully profane motifs, to be sure. Nice weft. Quite nice, quite nice."

  "Magister?"

  Audsley whirled around and saw Iskra rising from where she'd been sitting alone by the central fire pit, a fine shawl wrapped around her shoulders. "Audsley! Praise the Ascendant, you've returned!"

  "My dear Lady Iskra, please, forgive my tardiness." He hurried over and took her hands. "But you are looking so worn! Concern for Kethe? But of course. Have no fear – she was safely delivered to the Temple of the Virtues and received most graciously."

  "She was?" Tears glimmered in Iskra's eyes and she closed them, squeezing Audsley's hands so tightly that he almost protested. "Thank you. By the White Gate, thank you." Audsley went to demur, but realized she wasn't thanking him.

  "Yes, your younger sister proved a delight." He sat down on a stool, Iskra doing the same. "Iarenna is poised, decisive, and absolutely charming. She took matters straight into her own hands, just like you would have. A good thing, too. I was almost ejected from your family estate, but
she saw your magister bravely protesting the direness of his mission and swooped to my rescue."

  Audsley's smile faltered. Iskra's face was carved with exhaustion – and grief? She was hiding it well, but the magister saw that her eyes were red and her lips were pale. "But what has happened? You look distraught!"

  "Oh, Audsley." She smiled wearily and looked into the flames. "So much has happened. How I've missed you." The flickering flames were reflected in her eyes. "I scarce know where to begin." She inhaled, shaking her head, and then smiled. "But she is with the Virtues. That is the best news. Please, please, let her be Consecrated. Let her live, let her flourish, even if I never see her again. Please."

  There was such an intensity in Iskra's voice that Audsley felt abashed. The love of a mother, of course. And had any mother ever loved as intensely as Iskra? Well, quite possibly most of them, or at least some, but Iskra was a wonderful case of maternal loyalty. Absolutely splendid.

  "Yes," said Audsley. "But... please. Tell me. What has happened?"

  "I'm to be wed to the emperor of Agerastos," she said, quietly, naturally, with a soft, pained smile. "I agreed this afternoon. I should probably still be at the palace, but I insisted on leaving, on having some time alone."

  "Oh." Audsley blinked. "My dear lady. Congratulations, of course, but... but why?"

  So she told him. She explained the emperor's reasoning in quiet, measured words, and when she was done, she simply stared into the flames.

  "I... I see." Audsley took off his spectacles and polished them. " And – may I ask – Ser Tiron?" He winced in anticipation.

  Iskra didn't react, and he thought that perhaps she hadn't heard him, until suddenly she covered her face with both hands and pressed her fingers against her closed eyes.