The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (19 page)

There was another flash of wings, heavy and awkward, and then with a crunch of flattened snow and broken ice the wyvern landed but ten paces from Jaermungdr, balancing on its heavy rear legs, wings fanning the fire so that the flames whipped and leaped and almost went out. It turned its great shovel head, eyes piss-yellow cruel and its great fanged mouth smacking open and closed as it tasted the night air, tasted the scent of cooking flesh. It was small, no true dragon this, perhaps a quarter of the size of Jaermungdr, without forelegs and ungainly in flight. But it was one of the most terrible predators of the mountain peaks, and Tharok had only ever seen them from afar, circling the higher cliffs as they hunted mountain goats and errant kragh. Here, now, brown and bronze scales gleaming and glinting in the blue and green fire, it was vast and primal and his only hope for survival.

He set the lance against the dragon’s side and pulled free the first steak. It was hot and badly charred, but rich juices ran down his forearm even as he tossed it forward, aiming carefully so that it landed five yards from him, sinking out of sight as it fell into the snow bank. Then, without pausing, Tharok turned and scrabbled up the dragon’s flank, ignoring the pain thanks to the fire that raged in his blood, plunged World Breaker deep into Jaermungdr’s side so as to provide a handhold, and then hefted himself up onto the knee, and from there up the ridge onto its great armored back. Reaching down, he pulled free the sword, hauled up the lance, and turned to watch.

The wyvern hopped forward, wings partially opened for balance, great splayed talons giving it purchase on the ice and snow. It darted its head forward once, twice, snapping its maw, the clack of teeth loud and startling. Around the fire it came, thick tail weaving from side to side, until it stood close enough to the hole in the snow to give one last wary glance up at Tharok before abandoning caution to plunge its head down after the meat.

Tharok leaped. He turned as he jumped, arms and legs wide, so that he spun in the air and landed athwart the wyvern’s shoulders, crashing down on the dull bone horns that ran the length of its back, clamping tight as hard as he could, resisting the urge to plunge World Breaker into the wyvern’s hide for purchase, lance almost tearing free from his hand as the wyvern screeched its outrage and fury and began to sweep its wings back and forth with unstoppable power, spinning in place and leaping up into the air, almost gaining flight before crashing down again. It reached its head around to snap at him, fangs flashing close to his face, and blank whiteness surged before Tharok’s eyes, pain and fatigue almost causing him to black out, but he held on, gritted his teeth, legs wrapped around the wyvern’s great neck where it met the barrel chest, and then it was racing, running and leaping in its ungainly manner, till with a final surge and great pump of its wings it was aloft, shaking and heaving in its effort to dislodge him.

Up into the air they soared, rising with great swoops as each powerful wing beat forced the wyvern higher. Tharok pressed his cheek against the leather hide, hugged as tightly as he could so that the wyvern couldn’t reach him, its thick neck too short for complete flexibility. Up they flew, and then the wyvern banked hard to the left, falling and losing almost all of its gained height as it sought to dislodge him. He roared, felt himself begin to slip free, and clutched tighter, squeezing as hard as he could with his legs. At the last moment the wyvern righted itself, one wing’s edge catching the ground as it struggled for air once more, and up they went, rising and fighting for altitude. The fire was already falling behind them, a speck of blue light in that awful white valley, and up they went, the wyvern shrieking its fury as it fought for height.

Tharok moved. He couldn’t allow it to keep ascending to the point where he would no longer be able to breathe, to match its great lungs. He didn’t know if it was consciously trying to knock him free by knocking him out, but he wasn’t going to give it the chance. He allowed the lance to droop through his hand until there were only a couple of feet left before the tip, and then impaled the steak onto its cruel point and pulled World Breaker free. That done, he threw the lance up a couple of times, each time latching his hand lower and lower until he held it by the hilt. Then, carefully, minding the flapping wings and the great, heavy neck, he swung the steak through the night air so that it hung before the wyvern’s great broad head.

It immediately lunged forward to bite at the meat, jaws clacking shut but a foot from where it hung steaming in the night air. Tharok laughed and lowered the lance’s point, causing the wyvern to follow, losing altitude as it continued to burst forward, throwing itself through the air after its ever-retreating prey. Down they flew, and Tharok narrowed his eyes as he gazed past the lance’s tip at the mountains beyond. He swung the lance wide to the left, and the wyvern followed, screeching now in frustration, eager and furious, and the Five Peaks rotated about them, the stars wheeling overhead. They flew to the left and then straight, so that they were pointed at the mouth of the Dragon’s Breath, then down and out of the Valley of the Dead, out from the home of the gods, to return, sky-borne and bearing the blade and circlet of Ogri himself, down from the highest peaks to the world of the living once more.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was gone past midnight. Lady Iskra Kyferin lay awake atop her bed, her auburn hair undone and strewn across her pillow and covers. The cold night air blew in through the open window. It caused the candle she’d set on the lintel to flare, but it never went out. She lay still, listening to the sound of Otilge, her lady-in-waiting, sleeping in her cot at the foot of the bed. Listening to and feeling the texture of silence that enveloped her pushed her down, oppressed her as never before.

There had been many nights over the course of her marriage when she’d slept alone in their great bed, lost in its ocean of covers and furs. Nights when she’d lain thinking of her husband, wandering where his campaigns had taken him, to which field or manor house. Whether he was lying alone as she did, or had sought the company of others. Enderl had often preferred to go on extended hunting trips rather than staying home, preferring to bed in an inn or local manse rather than ride all the way back to the castle. All the way back to her.

And now she was truly alone. He wasn’t out there, larger than life, clad in mail and leather or wrapped in the arms of another woman. He was dead, stinking and merging with the soil if he’d not been buried. Most war dead weren’t; they were left out for the crows and foxes, for beaks and clever milk-white teeth. It was almost impossible to imagine her mighty husband shriveling and rotting away, his basso profundo voice stilled, the strength gone from his hands. It had been years since he’d left his mark on her flesh, but she could remember it still, how he’d grip her upper arm to shake her, how he’d send her stumbling with a push. He’d considered himself a gentleman because he never used his fist. Perhaps he had been.

Otilge’s breath caught, went silent, and then smoothed back out into her steady, husky breathing.

Iskra turned her head on her pillow, trying for an angle where she might catch sight of the moon. No luck. She was alone, and suddenly the world was no longer divided between her husband, wherever he might be out there, and herself holding the castle in his name; now she was surrounded by an ocean of night without end, and the castle would stand or fall by her own wit and wisdom. Her daughter and son would live or die by the agility of her mind. There were far too many pieces in motion for her to seek to understand them all, far too many unknown elements. The Agerastians. The Ascendant’s Grace and his Seven Virtues. Who knew how Aletheia would react to its terrible loss?

There was too much she couldn’t control—so she wouldn’t try. She would take one step at a time, as her father used to say. Take a problem, break it down to the smallest pieces, each irreducible. Then take the first and solve it. Then the next. Don’t look at the whole. Focus on the space before your feet and take that step. That step taken, take the next, and if you proceed in such manner, you shall one day look up, surprised, to see that you have succeeded.

Iskra sat up. She swung her legs over the edge of her bed and stood, her gossamer gown barely keeping the cold away. Moving silently past Otilge, she took her heavy fur cloak from where it hung on a hook and wrapped it around her shoulders, then stepped up to the window and craned down to look up and out. There it was, the moon, pockmarked and mysterious, waxing toward full, the source of mystery and magic. Iskra stared for ten heartbeats, taking her blessing, and then blew out the candle and slipped from her room.

The fourth floor of the keep was hers and her family’s alone. Four slender towers were affixed around the keep, three containing bedrooms, the fourth their private chapel. The central room was the family solarium, where they could retreat from public view when duty allowed. Lord Kyferin had made of it a gallery of his victories, and she’d yet to take the trophies down; walls were covered with the mounted heads of beasts, including a massive mountain kragh that Enderl had slain alone. Another wall was drenched in iron and steel weaponry. The tapestries were dedicated to the hunt, so that she felt the room was a hunter’s lodge more than a family space. Tomorrow, she vowed. This all comes down tomorrow.

She slipped out into the stairwell as quietly as a wraith and hurried past the Lord’s Hall, past the guard floor, to the kitchens and servants’ rooms. Pulling her cloak tightly about her neck, she pushed open the keep door just enough that the iron hinge wouldn’t scream, then caught it an inch from the jamb so it wouldn’t slam. Then she turned and looked up at the moon in the depths of the black night sky, so bright it drowned out the stars. The air was cold, so she didn’t linger; she hurried down the steps, her footfalls so soft and silent that the sentries atop the drum towers didn’t mark her passage. She continued through the arch and out onto the drawbridge, through the barbican, unnoticed by the men in the guard room beyond the murder holes.

Was it this easy to traverse the castle at night? She would bring the matter to Brocuff’s attention. Two soldiers were posted at the other drawbridge, standing guard at the barbican’s entrance. She slowed in the tunnel and studied them. They were still as statues, each holding a spear. Not talking. Not leaning against the wall. Good men.

“Soldiers,” she said, pitching her voice to carry. They both stiffened and turned, and she saw their eyes widen at the sight of her. Before they could speak, she swept out past them onto the drawbridge. “Stay at your posts.”

The bailey was abandoned. The men and women who ran the castle were sleeping off the day’s toil in anticipation of a lifetime’s more to come. She trod down the stone ramp, then turned toward the Wolf Tower. The soft dirt of the bailey floor was frozen into iron ridges that radiated cold through her slippers. Moving quickly, she traversed the bailey to the tower door. To her left she could hear the soft whicker of a horse in the stable. The stable boys would be asleep in the loft above, buried down in the hay like so many dormice. For a moment she envied them their lack of responsibilities and care, and then chided herself for her assumptions. What did she know of a stable boy’s woes?

The black tower door was shut fast against the night. She considered rapping her knuckles on the planks but simply pushed it open instead. The hinges groaned in protest, but then she was through and inside. She closed the door quickly and turned blindly to the interior. It was pitch dark. No torch was burning on the ground floor, and no gaoler was sitting watch. It was a barren room, the flagstones bare. She knew through memory that a staircase wound up along the inside of the wall to the second floor, where soldiers would be asleep, and then up again to the third, where military supplies lay in wait for some future attack. One more flight of stairs would bring her to the curtain wall parapet and the sentries who paced its length.

But her business was here in the dark depths of the Wolf Tower. She stepped forward to the center of the room where the iron grate was buried in the stone and lowered herself into a crouch to listen.

Silence came from below.

She knew that the prisoner was fed. Three years he’d lived in that square room below. Her Lord husband had sworn that the man would die down there, would rot away until he was forgotten, until only his bones, hair, and teeth remained to be thrown over the wall into the moat. She knew Ser Tiron was alive, or else the soldiers would have told her. But that silence… There was no sound of soft sleep. No snores, gentle or otherwise. It was an active silence, aching in its acuity. The ground floor was as dark as a tomb, but the space between the iron bars might as well have led through the Black Gate. She couldn’t make out a thing.