by Phil Tucker
Kethe shook her head.
"There's more. We've learned from a young Sigean woman – your aunt, I believe – that your mother plans to lead an attack on Lord Laur this evening. It is surely no coincidence that the Ascendant's Grace is currently staying at Laur Castle."
"What?" Kethe felt her paralysis shatter. "My aunt? Iarenna?"
"Yes. We had her brought in for questioning to learn how you came to the Temple. With a little pressure – well, suffice to say we were able to convince her to share all she knew. We learned that you were brought here by a Magister Audsley, who traveled, apparently, through Lunar Portals housed within a legendary stonecloud. That your mother was in Aletheia last night and recruited this Magister to attack Laur Castle to avenge your dead brother."
His words hit Kethe like a fist in the gut. "Roddick?" She pressed her hands to her stomach as pain lanced through her. "You're lying!"
"No, unfortunately." Theletos turned to stare melancholically out the window. "He's dead, it seems. Killed when your mother retook Castle Kyferin. Yet she blames us for his death."
Kethe leaned against the wall and slid down till she was sitting. Roddick. Castle Kyferin taken. A strike against Castle Laur. The Ascendant's Grace. Had she thought the world would stop while she trained and was exalted here in Aletheia? Her mother was fighting on. Her poor brother! Tears filled her eyes, and then her grief was swept away by a wave of rage. She struggled to her feet. "You animal."
Theletos turned to her, surprised. "Hmm?"
"How could you just tell me like that? Do you think it humorous? Does my pain amuse you?"
"Humorous?" He looked genuinely confused.
"Did you expect to surprise some confession out of me?" Oh, if she could but strike him!
"Confession?" He stood straight. "What are you talking about?"
"All of this, these casual hints, this – this horrible way of telling me about my own brother's death – is this a game? Is this how you amuse yourself in your boredom?"
"Hardly, Makaria. If I have offended you, then you have my apologies. These events that I relate to you belong to your old life, a life that ended when the Ascendant blessed you today. Perhaps it was cruel of me to tell you so. But –" He stopped, struggling for the first time to find the right words. "I find it ever harder to remember – or care for, to be honest –emotional subtleties. I have been in Theletos for too long." He looked down. "I wish I could explain, but it is something that requires experience to understand. Still, these facts are as I have stated them."
Kethe struggled to keep her fury simmering in place, but Theletos' sudden apology caused her anger to collapse upon itself, leaving behind a sour and sunken pain that threatened to consume her. Roddick. "And – tonight's attack on Castle Laur?"
Theletos shook his head. "We've learned about it too late. Henosis left immediately for Ennoia, and is riding as fast as she can to reach the Castle, but without this secret of the Lunar Gates, she won't reach them in time."
Kethe hugged herself. "So, there's nothing we can do."
"No, there isn't." Theletos frowned briefly, then sighed. "Unless we learn the secret of using the Lunar Portals during the day."
It wasn't an expectant pause. Surprised, Kethe realized he honestly wasn't fishing for information. She relaxed a degree. "And you don't think I know?"
He shrugged a shoulder. "How many times must I tell you, Makaria? I trust you. If you have something to tell me, I know you will tell me. I won't waste our time with pointless questions."
"Oh," said Kethe, feeling suddenly young and cynical and a fool all at once. She wanted to hide, to duck down into a dark corner and cover her head, to grieve for Roddick and herself and bid the world go away.
But she knew it wouldn't. And she was, for better or worse now, Makaria. So she steeled herself, forced her grief down, and tried to marshal her thoughts. "Where is Iarenna now?"
"Your former aunt? She is in a cell in the Temple, resting," said Theletos. "She's to be stripped of her titles and imprisoned for treason. Her family will be spared. It seems only she and her immediate servants helped in this betrayal."
"Oh," said Kethe, and this time it was a small sound, almost lost. "Can I ask for her to be set free?"
"Of course. But I'll ask why you wish it."
Kethe's bit her lower lip. What reason could Makaria give? Inspiration struck. "What if we released her in the hope of drawing further dissidents out? They might try to meet her, not knowing she'd been arrested."
Theletos nodded thoughtfully. "A good idea, but her life is already ruined. Her social rank, even if we press no charges, is forever destroyed. Her father, her family, her servants – none of them will pretend that nothing has happened. Which makes it unlikely that other traitors will seek her out blindly."
"Oh." It seemed to be all she could say.
Theletos sighed. "All of this is to say that I believe I understand what the Ascendant said to you. Events are coming to a head. Your past is inextricably linked with what is to come. But you are Makaria now, and whether you know it or not, whether you still believe, that makes all the difference. We accept you amongst us not blindly, but with a wisdom born of faith and experience." His eyes fixed her, held her rooted in place. "We know you will not fail us. That your every action will serve only to further the cause of the Empire, whether you know it or not. From now on, your every action serves the Ascendant."
Kethe wanted to shrink back against the wall. She stared at Theletos wildly, feeling like a cornered animal.
"A word of warning," said Theletos. "We will no doubt soon be mobilizing all our forces to strike a final blow against the Agerastians – or be receiving one. With their new usage of the Portals, they have perhaps become the gravest threat we have ever faced. You and your Consecrated will be called upon. It would be good if you took their training in hand immediately. Do you understand?"
Kethe nodded. She found that she couldn't speak. Her words had run dry.
He smiled. "So. Welcome. It is good to have our numbers complete once more." He placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezed, then let it drop and strode past her.
Kethe stared out the window blindly. She heard the door close behind her. She was alone, but her mind was crowded with fear, doubts, and pain.
Oh, Roddick, she thought. Oh, Roddick.
CHAPTER THIRTY
As Tharok approached Gold, he steeled his heart and walled off his emotions. This was easy to do. The circlet made cold calculation the preferred method of approach to any situation, but what was about to take place in Porloc's ramshackle capital was going to test his resolve, even with the circlet, even with the logic of this move made clear and self-evident by what he wished to accomplish.
The mountains had fallen back after several days of hard marching, becoming blue smears the heights of which were hidden in the clouds. The sky was a peerless blue, and he ached to explore it by wyvern-back. But he rode down the road to Gold on the back of a mountain goat, his horde a wall of iron and green flesh behind him, their myriad marching chants rising to heckle the sun.
Ahead of them lay Gold, a circular agglomeration of shacks and huts and the occasional human-built stone house and tower. Tharok recalled his first and only visit well. The tour Porloc had afforded him. The glimpse into the chaos of a poorly run city. The reek of filth in the streets, the leather awnings, the lashed poles, the cess pits, the slave markets, the raucous screams, the ever-shifting and roiling mass of kragh brought down from the mountains to swelter and stew and rut under Porloc's eye.
Tharok pulled his mountain goat to a halt, and his horde split around him, marching on, the warlords having drilled them the night before as to what was expected of them. It was the simplest of maneuvers. Those marching to his right would swing out to march around the right flank of the city. Those on the left would complete the encirclement, trapping all within the confines of Gold.
Tharok waited, arms crossed, watching as his thousands of warriors loped around the city
like wolves encircling a trapped goat. Their cries were savage with expectation, and those kragh who had retreated before them into Gold watched from the rooftops and alleys, unsure, frozen, struck into passivity by this shocking turn of events.
Word of Porloc's death had no doubt reached Gold days ago, but no one had risen to replace him. Tharok could imagine the chaos, the contests, the deaths – one Orlokor warlord challenging another for supremacy. Eventually, given enough time, a new Porloc would have arisen. But Tharok hadn't waited. With the vast bulk of the lowland kragh already at his command, any resistance he might find in Gold would be easily crushed.
All that remained was to close his fist and claim his prize.
There was another goal, however, a greater purpose to the encirclement. Certain key individuals he needed to capture.
The human merchants.
Most of them would have already fled by now. But the avaricious, those ruled by the hope of one last transaction, those grown cynical, who laughed at the idea of another Ogri, the last remaining few – he wanted them. He needed them caught and brought to him. He had made that point clear the night before, had demanded that the word be spread: he would pay a fist of gold for every human brought to him alive.
The ranks of his kragh finally slowed and then stilled. They had met at the far side of the city. Gold was now completely surrounded by his warriors.
Tharok nodded to a kragh who had walked by his side, a massive goat horn wrapped around his chest. The kragh inhaled deeply, chest expanding to its limit, and then blew powerfully into the horn. Its note sang out, deep and mournful, like the shadowed clefts in the mountains that never received a ray of sun. Its glacial blue note echoed out over the army, tremulous and vast, and with an answering roar the kragh raised their weapons and began to march into Gold.
Tharok leaped down from his mountain goat and urged his trolls to follow him. They were massed at his back, a block of lethal power that would not be denied. Overhead, his wyverns circled, letting their interweaving shadows strike terror into the hearts of Gold's kragh. Drawing World Breaker, Tharok marched down the last of the road and entered the city.
The kragh fled before him. To his left and right, Tharok saw his warriors moving through houses, trampling tents, upending carts, battering down hovels. Kragh children and elderly hurried ahead of that line, while those discovered cowering were kicked and lashed until they too ran deeper into the city. Not a corner was left unexamined, not a dwelling unexplored. Tharok heard the sounds of battle off to his right but couldn't see what was taking place. He sent a dozen trolls to investigate.
On they marched, deeper into the stink of Gold. Tharok understood the benefits of a city: centralized command, the ability to raise industries to new levels, a fixed market to which traders could bring their wares and find buyers. A symbol of power, of authority, of permanence.
And yet, it offended his highland sensibilities. His boots squelched in ordure. Vermin-infested hounds ran yelping from him. He saw several bodies pushed to the side of the road and left to rot. Kragh were not meant for a sedentary lifestyle. They were meant to roam, to live off the land, to never exhaust any one area, to move with the seasons. The clans circled the women's camp, which dictated the where and when of their habitations. And then, at the height of each season, the males would return to the central camp to vie for the right to mate with those females who were in season.
Tharok's lip curled back in disdain as he stared at the endless tide of hovels around him. Where were the women? How did these lowlanders know when it was time to mate? They had lost their connection to the land, to their traditions, to their past and thus their future. There were no Women's Councils amongst the lowlanders. Their tribal structures were flawed and broken. Only thus had a fool like Porloc managed to rise to power – by breaking that which he sought to rule.
Thirty Orlokor males came running around the corner, blades in hand. They slowed and stopped at the sight of Tharok and his trolls. Blanched, cursed, then turned and ran back toward the heart of the city.
Tharok stifled his regret. He wanted to kill. He wanted to vent his fury on some unwitting idiot, because for all the disgust he felt for Porloc, he knew he was only going to have to wreak further violence on the substance of these people, do such damage to their traditions that their lowlander habits would pale to insignificance. If he felt such disgust for what Porloc and his Orlokor had done, how would he feel about himself after his changes had been wrought?
The clamor and cries were building. Tharok could hear roars coming from the central square, where the citizens of Gold had gathered in their thousands, could sense the tightening of his cordon. He urged his wyverns to fly lower, to lace the crowd with their mind-numbing fear. The buildings here in the center were larger, better built, designed by human architects to last more than a mere handful of years. Some were two, even three stories tall.
He was close. The time had come.
He saw the line of the crowd up ahead, everyone facing out toward him, pressing back against each other, cramming into the central square. Tharok cast about and saw a suitable building. He ordered his trolls to keep moving forward, packing the Orlokor tight, and entered what might have been an inn or tavern. His warriors were clearing it of the last lingering lowlanders, throwing them out the windows, cutting down those who were making a final, mad resistance.
Tharok climbed up to the third story, kicked open doors till he found a suitable balcony, and stepped out into the morning sun.
The citizens of Gold were massed below him, a crowd such as he had never seen, pressed shoulder to shoulder, their sheer weight having toppled the market carts, crushed the temporary shelters, flowed up over the slave platforms. Wiry kragh had even climbed up into the branches of the few trees.
"Silence!" He roared that one word in his avalanche voice, and ordered his trolls and wyverns to shriek and bellow at the same time. The cacophony stilled the crowd, and eyes oriented on him. Kragh were being killed on the outskirts of the crowd, those who had sought to flee, to slip through his cordon. A tree, overburdened with bodies, toppled with a crash into the crowd, killing dozens.
"I am Tharok, warlord, Uniter! I wield World Breaker!" He drew his sword, felt the thrill of its power course through him, and held it aloft. His words echoed out over the crowd, mesmerizing all who were gazing up at him.
"Porloc is dead! Gold is mine! You are mine!"
Wails and cries rose up to greet him. He waited, giving the crowd time to pass his words back to those who couldn't hear, and then he ordered his wyverns to screech together once more. The horrific sound struck a primal dread even into his own heart, and the crowd cowered and went silent.
"These are my commands! All humans are to be delivered to Porloc's compound. All shamans are to be delivered to Porloc's compound! All warlords are to gather tomorrow morning in Porloc's compound!"
Again, he waited. Again, his words were passed back through the crowd. Cries, questions, and roars sounded, but the crowd remained still, waiting, listening, staring up at him.
"No one may leave Gold! Death awaits you outside! You are mine! One tribe! One kragh! One horde! Tharok the Uniter has come!" The crowd was too vast for him to do anything more than let loose his roars. "Shamans! Humans! All must be brought to Porloc's compound! Now, return to your homes!"
His orders to his warlords had been clear. Once all of Gold's citizens were gathered, allow them to filter out. Keep back all humans, keep back all shamans. Kill anybody who resisted. Kill anybody who questioned. Kill anybody who sought to lie or otherwise challenge Tharok's authority. This was Porloc's city, the last bastion of his old authority. That authority had to be broken.
The crowd churned beneath his gaze. At the edges, where the market let out into the dozens of roads, some broad, others narrow, kragh had begun to stream back into the city of Gold. Tharok stood and waited, arms crossed, watching as the market slowly emptied. Watching as humans were taken into custody. Watching as knots of r
esistance were crushed. A melee broke out in the western half that touched off the last spirit of rebellion, leading several hundred of Porloc's most loyal warriors to throw themselves at Tharok's soldiers.
Tharok gazed at the skies and commanded his wyverns. They began to swoop down, one after another, their great wings buffeting the crowd with blasts of wind. Each snatched up a kragh, crushing them in their claws, fought for altitude, then dropped them down on their fellows.
The fires of rebellion were quickly clenched, but Tharok's kragh had been ordered to give no quarter. All who had raised their weapons were slaughtered, even as they cast their weapons down and covered their heads, crying for mercy. Tharok's trolls waded into the heart of the Orlokor warriors and lay about them with their hammers. The sound of bones snapping could be heard even where Tharok was standing. In a matter of minutes, several hundred lay dead, their bodies crushed and broken.
The shock rippled through the remaining Orlokor. Tharok could sense their anger turning to fear. Could sense their outrage turning to despair. Could feel Porloc's spirit departing. Could sense his own authority manifesting. Yes, it was authority built on terror, but after this, there would be no doubt as to who ruled. Who owned Gold. Who led the kragh.
Tharok descended to the streets and, surrounded by his trolls, he made his way to Porloc's compound. Those who had already been released from the market watched him from their windows, shrinking back as his glance passed over them. When he reached the compound, he found it deserted. He strode in through the huge gate, and a memory came to him: Porloc celebrating his acquisition of World Breaker, the courtyard filled with warlords and bonfires.
The memory disappeared. Tharok turned and saw that the Red River had gathered here as instructed. He set about giving orders, sending Barok and Rabo along with a score of Red River warriors to clean out the compound, even as he had his trolls haul carts toward the left side of the courtyard and then ordered other kragh to lash them together and thus form a stage.
