by Phil Tucker
"They are," whispered Ramswold.
Tiron half-turned to take in the rest of the hall. The members of Ramswold's Order were standing around, some of their faces open with the thrill of victory, others sobered in shock. The servants were but shadows against the walls. Militiamen crowded the front door.
"All hail Lord Ramswold, ruler of his domain, your rightful liege by descent and conquest!"
The crowd startled, people blinking and tearing their eyes from the fallen Warmund.
Tiron smashed his fist down on the table, causing platters to jump and cutlery to rattle. "Did you not hear what I said? All hail! Greet your new lord! All hail!"
This time the cries were loud, the members of the Order emerging from their trance to roar, the servants clapping nervously, even some members of the militia letting out faint cheers.
Tiron turned and gestured to Ramswold. The boy looked ready to faint from blood loss and shock, but Tiron willed him to move forward, to seize the moment, to make it his.
Ramswold stared about like a country boy seeing the capital city of Ennoia for the first time, then took a step forward and grasped his sword by the hilt. He pulled it free with a grimace, then raised it high above his head. It glimmered crimson in the light of the fire.
Tiron roared once more, and this time everyone joined in, their cries ringing down from the rafters. "All hail! All hail! All hail!"
The next morning was brisk, the kind where the sun's warmth rapidly faded when you stepped into the shadows. Tiron had levered himself out of his bed remarkably late, then grabbed a bowl of gruel from a servant and stepped outside the keep to sit beside the stable on a low stool. It was a good spot. Out of the way. His knees were throbbing from yesterday's exertions, and the burn on his forearm was stinging wickedly. Closing his eyes as he chewed, he raised his face to the rays of the sun and inhaled. He could smell the horses and the clean scent of hay.
When he had emptied his bowl, he set it down beside his stool, extended his legs and crossed them at the ankles, then folded his arms and leaned back against the stable wall. The warmth of the sun sank into his bones. He lowered his chin and dozed, soothed by the whickers of the horses and the soft voices of the stable hands.
"Ser Tiron?" Tiron opened one eye. Ramswold was standing before him, a tentative smile creeping across his face, his left arm in a sling. "I was worried you'd left."
"Not yet," grunted Tiron, shifting on his stool. "How's the shoulder?"
Ramswold gave a nonchalant shrug on the uninjured side. "I'll live."
Tiron smiled. "We'll make a warrior out of you yet, my lord."
"Yes, perhaps." Ramswold's smile widened, then his expression grew uncertain. "Are you planning to leave soon?"
Tiron looked around the clearing. The keep doors were wide open. Servants were busy sweeping out moldy hay and scraps. A couple of young men were hanging tapestries over wooden frames, curved beaters at the ready. A mass of furniture had been piled up in the center of the clearing, a mass of expensive clothing thrown across it – ready, it seemed, to be burned.
"I'd not gotten past breakfast, truth be told. I don't know. Why?" Tiron knew why the young lord had asked. Still, it was worth hearing. How Ramswold answered might help him decide on his own answer.
"I would like very much for you to stay," said the young lord. "My companions are true, but you said it yourself: we lack experience. I need to confront the militia and decide if they can be trusted. What happens if they can't be, and I turn them out? Will they turn into brigands? I don't know." He smiled weakly. "These kinds of practical details aren't mentioned in my favorite sagas."
Tiron scratched at his beard. "I'm not a knight. Not anymore."
"But you were, weren't you? I never got to ask about your background. And I won't, if you don't want to discuss it. But it's clear you know more than I do about just about everything." Ramswold smiled again, an honest if rueful grin. "I'd appreciate your staying at the Red Keep for a short while, at the very least. We can discuss payment, if you like, but honestly, I'd be glad to have you for as long as you're willing to stay."
"Keep your gold, my lord. You're going to need it."
"Very well. But will you stay?"
Tiron inhaled and held his breath. Stay? Grow to know these young men and women. Give advice to Ramswold. Help him secure his grip on his lands and title. Where else had he to go? Still, the wilderness called to him, told him to find a quiet spot, perhaps even a cave like some Sigean hermit, and just sit and take in the sun and rest. Rest, after so many years of pain and suffering, madness and violence.
"Perhaps you think me a fool," said Ramswold quietly. "With my Order of the Star, my naïve young friends. I own that I know more of the world from books than from living in it. But I want to change that. For too long, I sulked and hid. I blamed my mother, my father, Lord Kyferin, anyone and everyone. It took Osterhild for me to see that I had to take responsibility for my own life. And so I have. I founded my Order because I want it to exist. My uncle always told me that life wasn't like my tales, and perhaps it isn't. But I want it to be. Or, rather, if I have any modicum of power, of authority, I want to use it to fashion the world as I've always wished it to be. A good place. A fair place. A place where an Order like mine can set an example, and be respected instead of laughed at."
Tiron sighed. "Order of the Star. Let me guess – named after some ancient and noble group of knights?"
"Yes," said Ramswold softly. "A most heroic Order, led by Ser Jesche. Lady Otheria earned her fame fighting by his side. A most noble Order."
Tiron grunted. "One day, you should meet my friend Audsley. A Noussian, as steeped in books as you are. You'd get along."
"Oh?" Ramswold glanced sidelong at him. "I look forward to meeting him, then."
"I'll stay," said Tiron. "I don't know how long. A week, perhaps a month."
"You will?" Ramswold all but clapped. "That's wonderful, Ser Tiron."
"Just Tiron. I've told you, I'm not a knight." Tiron sat up. "What's more, I make a terrible servant. I'll speak my mind when I've a will to. If you don't like it, that's fine; I'll leave."
"I want you to speak your mind," said Ramswold. "That's precisely why I've asked you to stay."
"You say that now," growled Tiron. "We'll see. But as long as I feel as if I'm of some use, as long as I think you're listening to me, I'll stay. Only time will tell how long that lasts."
Ramswold lowered himself to one knee. "I swear to you, Tiron –"
"Get up," Tiron said, scowling. "On your feet."
"Pardon?" Ramswold climbed awkwardly back up.
"You're their lord now," said Tiron, nodding toward the servants. "You can't go bending knee to a bitter old man with no title. A wise woman once told me that authority and power belong to those who can tell the most convincing tale, who can get those around them to believe in their version of the world. You need to start working on your own tale, my lord. You need to start cultivating it. But you sure as hell won't convince anybody if you start dropping to your knees."
"I – yes. My tale." Ramswold blinked, looking off into the distance. "That's a good way to think of it. My own story."
"Now," said Tiron, and he moved forward and knelt. "I'll do the swearing. Damn this knee to the Black Gate. All right, here's my oath: I'll give you advice as long as I think you're listening. I'll look out for your best interests as long as they accord with my own principals. I'll teach you what I know of combat and conflict, but the moment I decide to leave, I'll tell you and ride off. Fair enough?"
Ramswold hesitated and then laughed. "A noble oath! I'll have it transcribed for posterity. Yes, more than fair."
"Good," said Tiron, rising to his feet with a grunt. "Now, let's convene your council."
"I don't have a council," said Ramswold.
"You do now. Who do you trust? Invite them to join us."
"Osterhild, then. Leuthold, a lieutenant in the militia. He's a good man, and kind. I trust him. Let's see – Pex
and Isentrud from my Order. And Winlin. He was my father's falconer. He refused to work for Warmund and lives in a cabin a day's walk from here."
"Good. Summon them. We have much to discuss."
"Such as my militia?"
Tiron began to walk toward the keep. "That, and Nyclosel's imminent attack."
"Nyclosel's – what?"
Tiron chuckled. "Word will have reached him by the end of the day. The first thing he'll do is test your resolve. We should expect a raid on your border tomorrow, the day after at the latest."
Ramswold stopped walking, then hurried to catch up. "How do you know this?"
"Experience. Now," Tiron repeated, "let's summon that council of yours. We've much to discuss if you and your lands are to survive the coming weeks and months."
Tiron marched into the Keep, Ramswold bubbling with questions behind him.
For the first time in he didn't know how long, Tiron felt something akin to satisfaction.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Maur came to Tharok mere hours after his confrontation with Kyrra. He was bent over a map, examining the lands between Gold and Abythos, when he felt a presence in the window.
He took up World Breaker and turned. This wouldn't be the first assassin to learn that Tharok was more than capable of defending himself without his wyverns and trolls. Instead, he saw Maur stepping down from his windowsill, jaw set, eyes smoldering.
"Wise Woman," he said, lowering the blade.
Maur spat. "Don't use those words. That title is dead. I am nothing more than Maur, kragh female."
Tharok set World Breaker on the table. "Now is the time for warlords. Later, after the war has been won, the Wise Women will have their turn to reknit our society."
Maur laughed darkly, never taking her eyes from him, moving slowly out to the side as if she expected an attack at any moment. "You believe that, Tharok? Tell me true. Do you believe that?"
Tharok hesitated. "Yes."
Maur bared her teeth. She lacked the tusks of a male, but her expression more than compensated with its ferocity. "Liar."
"There will come a day when we have conquered all. When the last human has bent knee or been beheaded. When that day comes, I will have served my purpose. Then I shall step aside, and you will rise to take my place."
Maur turned her head and spat again. "Liar."
"How so?" Anger flickered within him, but he crushed it. "You think we will exist in a state of war forever?"
"Maybe. But I do know that the evil you have unleashed upon us will not go quietly into the dark." She grinned again at him. "Oh, yes, I've heard. The news is spreading like wildfire. It took us hundreds if not thousands of years to put the blood worship of the medusas behind us. In little more than a month, you have undone everything we have accomplished. Now, we will howl and rock and slaughter each other like beasts once more, while that demon gluts herself on our blood. Tell me, warlord, how do we recover from that?"
Tharok shrugged, feigning disinterest. "When I am done with her services, I shall cut off her head, and her religion will die with her."
"Fool. You think she will not anticipate your move? You think she will wait for you to attack?"
"No. She will move against me at a crucial point in our war, seeking to pre-empt me. I will be ready. Her attack will be all the justification I will need to kill her."
"You think you have it all figured out. But even if you do kill her, even if you destroy a goddess, what will all her shamans do? What about her ranks of faithful?"
Tharok frowned. "This is needed. We cannot win without her."
"No!" She glided forward so quickly that he growled and raised his blade, but she ignored World Breaker altogether. "We have already lost! Who are we? Are we the kragh who existed but months ago? No! You have destroyed us! The shamans will take generations to recover, if they are ever given the chance! You've adopted the lowlander tradition of ignoring the Wise Women. How long will it take for you males to listen to us again?"
Tharok lowered his brows but kept his blade up. Maur pressed forward against it, mere inches from him, insensate to the thin line of blood that World Breaker was drawing from her side.
"The kragh are dying. You are killing us. You are destroying a people to make a weapon, and should you one day decide that you are done, that you have no more enemies to fight, then you will see that you can't unmake a sword. We will have become good at one thing, and one thing only: destruction."
Tharok growled deep in his chest. "Not so. Just as I have raised Kyrra, so can I destroy her. Just as I have changed our people, so can I do it once more when it's needed."
"Fool. You think only of winning. Nothing of what comes after. Tell me true: do you really care what happens to us after you have won your war?"
Her eyes were locked on his, burning so brightly that Tharok had difficulty holding her gaze. A simple "yes" was all it would take, but he found that he couldn't speak.
He thought of the walls of Abythos, of the human knights, of their Portals and lands, their castles and Ennoians, their Virtues and armies, their hidden fortresses and greatest cities, and how he could destroy them. But after?
"I knew it." Maur smiled, but something in her eyes died. "You are good, Tharok. Much better than I ever gave you credit for. You had us fooled. Each step of the way, you managed to make us trust you. I trusted you." Tears formed in her eyes. "I believed in you, long after I should have stopped. Even now, I hoped to see something in your soul that would comfort me and make me believe you still care. But, no. The only fool greater than you is me, for believing you. For thinking you cared about anything other than power and blood."
Tharok placed World Breaker on the table and closed his eyes. The pain in Maur's eyes sickened him. He pressed the bases of his palms against his temples and turned away.
The circlet burned.
This was emotional blackmail, the last dying gasps of a backwards culture. This was a natural protest that should have been expected. Ignore her, he told himself. She had no power. She no longer needed to be courted. Her Wise Women were powerless. Cast her out.
Tharok took hold of the circlet. It seared his fingers. Take it off, he thought. Now, while you're yourself. Now, while you can!
An image came to him. Fifty wyverns slowly circling in the skies above. The heavy, menacing might of the matriarch. All of them bound to him only by the circlet. Beyond them, the sixty or so trolls, pacing, patrolling the city, their very presence maintaining order.
Cast me aside, tolled a voice in the depths of his mind, and they shall run amok.
Tharok stilled.
"Tharok?" Maur's voice was uncertain.
Who are you? Tharok stared at the wall, stared through it. Who are you?
There was no response. Tharok pressed his fingertips to the circlet once more. His flesh sizzled and healed immediately. Then he became aware of the crushing headache that he lived with every day, every moment, the pounding agony that controlling such forces and beings, that contorting his mind into both troll and wyvern while remaining himself subjected him to. Only World Breaker and the Medusa's Kiss kept that pain from destroying him.
"Speak," he rasped. "Speak!"
There was no response, but the silence carried weight, a hideous contentment like that of an argument won.
"Tharok?"
Tharok growled and snatched up World Breaker. "I am not your puppet! Answer me, damn you!"
Strength flooded into him from the sword, and though his pain receded, his fury only redoubled. With a roar, he smote at the wall. World Breaker cut through the planks, chopped clear through a massive wooden column, and sent a flurry of splinters flying across the room.
"Tharok!" Maur danced back. "Stop it!"
Tharok roared, clutched World Breaker with both hands, and hewed at the ground. Stone shattered as he gouged a cut a foot deep into the rock. "Speak!"
Still, there was no reply.
With a cry, he wheeled and cut the table in two, then screame
d and hurled World Breaker as if it were a spear, sending it flying across the room to impale a column and sink into the hard wood.
He clutched at his temples and sank to his knees. "I'm burning up," he rasped. "My mind. My soul. I'm burning up. Charring away. There's nothing left."
"Tharok," whispered Maur, moving to his side. "Is that you?"
"Yes. No." He groaned and bent over, eyes closing. "I don't know."
She touched his shoulder, then withdrew. "Is this an act? Are you manipulating me again?"
"No." He remained kneeling, hunched over, pressing at his temples.
Good. This is perfect. Earn her sympathy. Make her think that you are fighting the influence, that there is a true, hidden Tharok for her to support.
"Silence!" He climbed to his feet and slammed his fist against the wall. Wood crunched, his knuckles split, and he punched clear through, his arm sinking in to the elbow. Pain flared, then receded as he began to heal.
"Take it off!" Maur spun him around. "Now! Take it off while you can!"
Tharok trembled as he raised his hands to his brow. But if he did, the consequences, the failure, the deaths that would result – he would be destroyed, and the medusa would rise to become a goddess in truth. The wyverns would descend upon the tribes, bringing madness, death, blood without end –
"Take it off!" Maur lunged for the circlet.
Tharok's eyes flared open wide, and he grabbed her by the throat. He'd grown since they'd first met. He now towered over her, and without effort he lifted her off her feet.
"Tharok," she grunted, hands grasping his wrists. She scrabbled at them, scoring his flesh with her nails. Each cut healed immediately.
"Don't touch it." His voice was raw. "You don't know what would happen if you took it off."
"Tharok," she hissed.
"I cannot." He stared through her. "I'm trapped. It's used me too well." His fury mixed with shame. "I've come too far. If I pull out now, the consequences – they'll be worse than anything we can imagine."
Maur's face had darkened. She lashed at him with her feet, but he barely felt the blows.
