by Phil Tucker
The sound of fighting was growing closer. Marcus looked from one face to the next and sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I'll show you. Come on, then."
They filed into the tunnel, Tiron in the lead with the candle raised in one hand and his family blade in the other. The sound of fighting quickly fell away as they hurried on through a tunnel so narrow it brushed both of his shoulders.
He didn't know if the others understood what it meant for the kragh to have captured the Solar Gate, not only for the Empire, but for themselves; whether they appreciated what danger would pass into Bythos when the Solar Gate opened up next – a monster that could petrify its enemies with a simple gaze.
This was no Ogri the Destroyer they were facing, no mere Uniter of the kragh. This Tharok was something else, something far worse, and he had already defeated and destroyed the majority of the Empire's armed forces.
As Tiron followed the winding tunnel deeper and deeper into the rock, he felt his mood become ever grimmer.
The Empire hadn't just lost a crucial battle. It might already have lost the entire war.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Tharok turned World Breaker back and forth, examining its curved blade. From where had it sprung? What did it portend? He knew not. The black fire was gone now, but while it was burning, he had felt even greater vigor and bloodlust. He had cleaved through his foes with ease. Was that a manifestation of his corruption, or was it native to the blade?
Kragh were settling down around him. Most of them hailed from the Falling Stones tribe, with a smattering of Orlokor seeded through their number. That they were sitting together, that they hadn't immediately separated into their old clans and divisions, pleased him.
He'd positioned a troll at the mouth of each causeway. They crouched there, immobile, their burning yellow eyes slitted and never blinking, watching for some sign of human foolishness. Nobody would pass them without being caught. With the trolls on watch, Tharok could let his kragh rest, could let them regale each other with inflated tales of their accomplishments and let them bathe in the glory of having formed his vanguard, of being the first to enter the human Empire uninvited.
Tharok slung World Breaker over his shoulder. Was that reluctance he felt about facing Shaya and Nok? He'd made them wait long enough. He gestured, and they approached. Were they wary? They had the right to be.
"Warlord," said Nok. "You have won. You stand in Bythos."
Tharok grunted. "Did you doubt me?"
Nok shook his head. "No, which surprises me, despite knowing what you were fighting against. I did not doubt you. There is nothing you cannot do."
Tharok didn't like the way Shaya was looking at him. "That is true."
"Which is why I am confused," Nok said, his voice growing hard. "If you have such power, why did you not use it to protect the Bythians?"
Tharok narrowed his eyes. "A tragedy. I did not wish for that to happen."
Nok didn't relent. "They fought for you. They risked everything for you. And in turn, they were killed by our warriors."
"A mistake," Tharok said coldly. "One I regret."
"Do you, Tharok?" Shaya asked.
Her kragh had improved, Tharok noted. He growled low and deep in his chest. "Tread carefully, Shaya."
"Or what?" She pushed back her shoulders. "You will cut me down and throw my body amongst my kin?"
Tharok's anger began to grow white-hot. "You have my apology. Be done."
Shaya shrugged off Nok's hand. "Your apology will not bring them back to life."
Tharok inhaled slowly, fought for patience, and felt a cool calm descend upon him from the circlet. "You are upset, and rightly so. I swore to protect the Bythians, and instead they were slaughtered. I own this mistake, and I will make it right with your people, in time. But there is nothing I can do now. You have my apology, but I understand if it means little."
Shaya crossed her arms tightly and turned away.
Nok was watching Tharok carefully. What did he see? Tharok stood taller than Nok by nearly a foot now. His authority was spurring his growth.
"Your distraction allowed me to capture the Portal." Tharok strove to make his voice friendly and reasonable. It was no longer a tone he was used to employing. "I will not forget that. In a few days, Bythos will be mine. Then I shall reward your people with freedom and passage to Abythos if they desire it. You will see."
Shaya nodded, and her shoulders sagged.
"You have gone through much," Tharok said quietly. "This has not been an easy time."
"Her father was murdered," rumbled Nok. "She fought her brother for you. She has shown the bravery of a kragh." She gave him a tight-lipped smile before he continued. "How have things progressed with the tribes? What has happened since last we spoke?"
"Much has changed," Tharok replied. "To accomplish this, I have had to make... sacrifices."
Nok raised a craggy brow. "Sacrifices?"
"I have given Kyrra permission to practice her rituals in the open. In turn, she has helped me turn our people into a weapon. Even now, she should be subduing the humans who remained in Abythos. It was her shamans who opened the main gate. I could not have done this without her."
"You have returned us to the old ways?"
Tharok loathed the dawning incredulity in Nok's face. "I will not have this argument again. It was necessary, but only temporary. As soon as I am done with her, I will cut her throat."
Shaya looked from Nok to Tharok in surprise, but held her tongue. Nok was not so quiet. "And Maur? What did she have to say about this?"
Tharok's anger spiked. "Why should I care? When the war is over, we will listen to the Wise Women once more. Until then, my word is law."
Nok stepped in closer. He might be shorter than Tharok now, his skin starting to lighten, but he did not lack for courage. "What have you done, Tharok?"
"What I had to. Do you see where I stand? Do you know what it took to accomplish this?"
His circlet was burning his brow. The fiery pain was much less now that he was no longer controlling his wyverns and all the trolls, but he still felt its weight, felt its fire. "Do none of you understand what it takes to conquer an Empire? I cannot do so without employing every tool at hand. Kyrra. You. Shaya. The wyverns and trolls, the tribes and shamans. Everyone. Everything. I must bend them to my use, and only then can I win."
Tharok took a step forward, cutting Nok off before he could respond. "You cannot understand. You are limited. Dull. Brutish. You do not have my vision for what is taking place, for what must happen next. You could not have done what I have done. I have defeated the Empire's greatest army. Thousands of their soldiers, their magic warriors, their best hope at saving their Empire. I have accomplished exactly what I set out to do. And tomorrow, when the Portal opens and my kragh come through by the tens of thousands, when my grip tightens around the throat of the Empire and I begin to tear down the world of the humans stone by stone, then you will see. Then you will understand why I have taken these steps, even though they pain me, even though they wound my soul."
Tharok looked past Nok at the dark fastness of the cavern in which they were standing: the huge stalactites, the causeways and tunnel entrances. "From here, we will spread forth and conquer all that there is to take. We will tear down their walls. We will kill all who oppose us. We will bring fire and ash. We will teach them to never again meddle with our tribes, to never again think to use us as pawns. And only after that has been done will I cast this circlet into the abyss. Only then will I cut off Kyrra's head and restore our true ways. Only then, when we are mighty, when we are safe, when we are the victors eternal, will everyone understand why it was worth the price."
Nok didn't nod, didn't acquiesce.
Tharok stared at him. It would be a small thing to reach out and force him to nod. To grasp him with the power of the circlet. But he held back. Waited.
"As you say, warlord," Nok said at last. "As you say. We are pleased to have served you. When the Red River passes through,
we will stand with them and follow you where you lead."
Tharok curled his hands into fists. "The Red River has left my horde," he said. "I gave Maur permission to do so."
Nok jerked his head up. "They have left?"
Tharok nodded. His anger had become a dull sort of fury, but he didn't want to think about his conversation with Maur. Not now, when he should be celebrating his greatest accomplishment. He wanted to thrust the past away and glory in his victory, but an instinct, barely felt, urged him to move past his annoyance, to hold steady.
And then he realized an obvious truth, one that for some reason he'd not hit upon.
The wyverns were gone. The majority of the trolls. He was free of the need to control them.
Tharok reached up and removed the circlet.
His world collapsed in upon him, a hundred plans swirling into oblivion, falling apart like spider webs beneath his fingers. He inhaled violently and squeezed his eyes shut as his headache faded along with the depthless banks of knowledge, the iron control and purpose.
"Nok," he whispered. He could barely put words together. He felt dazed. "I let Maur go. She took with her all the remaining shamans."
"Tharok?" Nok moved in closer and put a hand on Tharok's shoulder. "Why did you let them go?"
Tharok forced himself to look up and grin. "I dance on the edge of madness, Nok. I may fall, but they are my security. They will safeguard our traditions. They will work against me if I lose my way." He laughed. "The circlet does not like this. But I have some control left."
"Don't put it back on," said Nok. "Cast it into the depths. Now."
Tharok shook his head wearily. "I need it if I am to control Kyrra. Without it, she will destroy me. I must find balance between the two."
"What can I do?" Nok's voice was urgent. "How can I help?"
Tharok closed his eyes. His head felt blessedly empty. He felt like a ghost within his own body, a slender candle flame in the heart of a storm. "I don't know. If you stay, you will be absorbed by my horde. I almost controlled you just now in my anger. You are safer away from me."
"I am your clan mate," said Nok fiercely. "I won't leave you."
"You can serve me better if you stay alive." Tharok gritted his teeth. "Go back to Abythos when the Gate opens, and then leave it to find Maur. Join your strength with hers. She did not tell me why she wished to leave with the shamans, but I suspect she has a plan. Help her."
"If you command me, I will go."
"No, old friend." Tharok smiled wearily. "I don't command. I ask. It is your decision."
Nok lowered his head.
"Think about it," said Tharok. "When the Gate opens, make your decision. Take Shaya or not; I will let you choose. I swear to you that I will treat the Bythians fairly. But I ask you to go. If I become the monster that Maur fears, then I will need you to stand against me."
Nok nodded. "All right, my warlord. I will go."
"Good."
Tharok felt fragile, shaky. He realized that he wanted to put the circlet back on, that he was craving its assurance, its strength, its control.
"Now, leave me," he told Nok. "I must plan out the coming days."
Tharok turned away and raised the circlet in both hands. Its dull surface barely reflected the strange green light of the insect shells. He raised it farther still and held it poised over his head.
Sky Father, give me strength, he whispered in the deepest depths of his mind, and then, before his anguish could overcome him, he lowered the circlet back down onto his head.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Iskra stood paralyzed with horror.
Nearby, Theletos was dancing. He was untouchable, and everywhere he passed, men spouted blood. His blade seared the air and his laughter rose high into the night – and men died.
The Hundred Snakes converged on him, swinging and lunging and screaming their terror and defiance, but none of them could touch him. Their blades shattered as if they had struck an invisible wall. Heads and arms were lopped off. The Snakes kept rushing in, their fanatical discipline serving only to ensure their complete destruction. Theletos' blade swept beams of light through the ranks of his enemies, illuminating them for a moment before they fell.
There were more men to replace those he had killed. Ten men stepped in for every one who fell. The pile of bodies mounted, forming a bank around him, a berm over which new soldiers scrambled, screaming their defiance, only to be cut down, again and again.
When the wall of corpses around him grew too high, Theletos leaped up. He spun in the air, his blades crossed over his chest, and landed amidst the soldiers. Then he ran forward, cutting a crimson furrow through the packed ranks.
Iskra couldn't breathe. How many had he killed in only a few minutes? An impossible thought flickered through her mind: could he actually slay an entire army by himself?
No. That couldn't be.
Again he leaped, and this time when he landed, the soldiers scrambled back, tripping over each other. Theletos landed lightly, blades held out to the side and Iskra saw that he hadn't passed through her men untouched; a line of red ran down his cheek, and his robe was scored here and there with shallow cuts.
Theletos thwipped his blades down, whipping the blood clear so they could glow again with shocking light.
Iskra's soldiers pressed back against each other, a circle of terrified men.
Theletos blew a lock of hair out of his face and turned to her. "This is your last chance to surrender. These deaths are on you, Iskra Kyferin. How many more must I slay?"
Behind her, was a murmur, a stern call, and the soldiers parted. The Vothaks stepped forward. Clad in their purple and yellow robes, they numbered about two dozen, Ilina at their head. They were all that was left of the emperor's once-proud cadre of mages: two dozen men and women, their faces ashen, their gazes cold.
They spread out into a line, and Ilina raised her hand. Black sparks of lightning ran from the tips of her fingers down the length of her forearm.
"I've never slain a Virtue," she said. "And I doubt I could do it alone. But, on my command, we shall all of us will fill the air before us with black fire. No matter how fast you leap, no matter how impossibly skilled you are with those blades, you will die. You will scream until your throat collapses, and your eyes will boil in their sockets. So, I tell you: surrender."
Iskra felt both revulsion and relief at Ilina's threat, but Theletos seemed utterly unconcerned.
"Ah, the Agerastian Sin Casters. Finally, we meet. It has been most frustrating, being unable to challenge you in Ennoia. But you have done me the favor of coming to my home. Now I can show you what a humble adherent of the White Gate can do."
Ilina sniffed. "So be it." She stretched out her hand, and with a cry let loose a bolt of black fire. It snapped across the air between them, faster than Iskra's eye could follow.
Theletos raised his hand and caught it. He drank it into his skin with his hair blowing back, his clothing rippling around him as if he were standing in a hurricane wind. Then his eyes blazed with white fire, and he smiled. "Through me sings the White Gate, witch. Your black fire is useless."
The soldiers fell back in alarm and dismay. Ilina gritted her teeth and nodded at the others. The other nineteen Vothaks raised their hands and let loose a yell of defiance.
Black lightning flashed from forty-eight palms, and Iskra raised her hand to shield her eyes. The air was seared; it smelled immediately of overheated iron, and a wind whipped up around them, driving men to their knees.
Iskra peered through her fingers at where the lightning had converged, looking for the charred corpse of Theletos. There, a flickering, dancing storm was coruscating around a lone figure, a single man who leaned into the ebon lightning, both hands outstretched before him. The black fire was sucked into his palms, and his eyes blazed such that white fire ran down his cheeks and plumed out of his open mouth. His whole body was strained, every sinew, every tendon standing out in sharp relief.
He was scream
ing, a silent roar that caused Iskra to shudder.
And then, against all the odds, impossibly, he stepped forward.
The Vothaks were moaning, blood running from their nostrils and their ears. The roar and crackle of their magic was overwhelming.
Theletos took another step forward, and Iskra realized that he wasn't screaming.
He was singing, and the sound of his song wrenched at her soul.
He took another step. He was going to make it, Iskra realized. Somehow, he was absorbing every bolt of heretical magic and pushing his way through the storm.
White fire ran up the length of his clenched swords, and suddenly a bolt of lightning erupted right up into the heavens, a flash of white fire that lit up the undersides of the clouds. Another shot up from the second blade, then the first sparked up once more. The second fired a writhing bolt up and remained lit. Two crackling, dancing tongues of white lightning roared up from his swords and burned the clouds, causing them to roil and whirl around his white fire.
Iskra felt as if all the blood were draining from her head. She felt faint. If he killed her Vothaks, then they were done.
She couldn't comprehend this. Couldn't fathom this kind of power.
Then Theletos fell to one knee. He shuddered, tried to rise, and fell again.
Several of the Vothaks cried out and dropped their arms, swooning to the ground.
The lightning flaring up from Theletos' blades went out. He cried out, clearly in pain now, and the black lightning escaped his palms and began to race over his frame. He screamed and threw back his head, and Iskra wanted to scream out to Ilina in turn, to order her to stop, to let him live.
"Stop."
The word was quietly spoken, but it cut through the massed ranks like a scythe through wheat. And, miraculously, the Vothaks ceased their attack. They closed their hands, sagging and gasping, some slipping to their knees, and as one turned to regard the speaker.
The one who had approached them, stepping past the soldiers as they fell back in awe, opening a channel for him.
