The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (41 page)

Ser Wyland stirred. “Black Shriving?”

Gunnvaldr scowled, as if he’d been caught admitting something he’d intended to deny. “Nothing you have to worry about. Not yet, at any rate.”

“Still.” Ser Wyland spread his hands. “You can’t blame me for being curious. Does it have anything to do with the Winter Shriving?”

Kolgrímr stepped forward and leaned one shoulder against a post. “Winter Shriving?”

“Yes. A holiday we’ll be observing in two months’ time.” Ser Wyland hesitated. Asho saw no recognition on Kolgrímr’s face. “It’s an annual celebration of the process of Ascension. Our sins are cleansed throughout the night so that we may greet the dawn in a state of purity and spend the day rejoicing. You’ve not heard of it?”

Kolgrímr shook his head. “The Black Shriving falls two months from now. That’s no celebration.”

“Wait,” said Kethe. “You’ve truly not heard of the Winter Shriving? Which is your city? Ennoia?”

Gunnvaldr shook his head. “We’re Hrethings.”

Kethe sat forward. “But then how do you know your current cycle of Ascension?”

Gunnvaldr and Kolgrímr shared a look. “We’re Hrethings,” said the son. “We pray for Ascension and to pass through the White Gate. That is all.”

Kethe went to object, but Ser Wyland raised his hand and nodded. “That’s fine. We’re not here to discuss theology. So our Winter Shriving is your Black Shriving. What can you tell us of it?”

“It’s a bad night,” said Kolgrímr. “Legend has it that whoever’s at the Hold disappears by dawn. Evil roams the land. Down here we lock our doors and pray to the Ascendant and hold a vigil till dawn.”

Silence fell across the room, except for the crackling of the fires. Gunnvaldr puffed at his pipe, and his son turned back to the kitchen, where his mother was ladling soup into bowls. These were handed out, along with hanks of hard black bread that softened wonderfully when dipped.

“There’s something else you ought to know,” said Ser Wyland.

“There always is,” said Gunnvaldr, staring into the flames.

“The man who banished us isn’t content with letting us rot in the Hold. He’s sending an armed force to finish the job through the Talon two weeks from now.”

Gunnvaldr hissed smoke out through clenched teeth. “They’ll have to pass through Hrething in order to reach the Hold.”

Ser Wyland “That’s why we’re also interested in hiring whatever help’s willing to come up to the Hold to shore up the walls.”

Kolgrímr laughed warmly. “Hire Hrethings to come up to the Hold? Not likely.”

“I thought as much,” said Ser Wyland. He spooned some soup into his mouth. “Ah, that’s good.”

“You should quit the Hold,” said Gunnvaldr. “You’ll die there if you stay, whether at the blade of these enemies of yours or otherwise. We’ve no room for you here in Hrething, but if you move down into the lowlands you might find room in Dagrún. They might accommodate you.”

Asho resisted the urge to set down his soup. “And save you the trouble of having warriors come through while we’re at it.”

“Aye,” said Gunnvaldr calmly. “That’s a welcome benefit right there. Do you blame me, lad?”

Asho looked down. “No, I guess not.”

Kethe spoke, her voice quiet. “What is it you fear up in those mountains? Not just twisted bears. What else is up there?”

Silence fell. Gunnvaldr exchanged a glance with his son, but neither spoke.

“The portcullis of the Hold was torn down as if it were made of soft butter,” said Ser Wyland. “What could do such a thing?”

“Nothing that will ever pass through the White Gate,” said Gunnvaldr. “We don’t speak of it. I’ll ask you kindly to leave it at that, or leave my house.”

Ser Wyland nodded and they subsided into silence once more, slurping their soup and enjoying the warmth of the fire. Asho mopped up the last drops in his bowl, and still he heard his stomach growl. Would it be rude to ask for another four bowls? He looked over and saw that Kethe had polished off her bowl as well. She caught his eye and made a face. Clearly she was still hungry too.

The silence was rent by a sudden pounding. Kolgrímr strode over to the door and pulled it open. One of the men who had welcomed them to town was there, a burning torch held aloft. “There’s trouble. Einarr’s found spoor along the west wood, moving in the direction of the Önundr farm.”

Kolgrímr nodded and looked to his father. “I’m going after it.”

“You are not.” Gunnvaldr rose to his feet. He had clearly once been a powerful man, but his frame was now lean and bowed.

“I am. Of course I am.” Kolgrímr smiled, but it was more grimace than smile. “How am I to earn my own floor rug and tale if I stay cowering at home?”

“This is no bear, Kolgrímr, and you know that.” Gunnvaldr was shaking. “You will lock that door and stay here till dawn. The Önundrs will have to fare as best they can.”

“No, Father.” Kolgrímr moved over to where he’d propped up his ax. He took it up. “I won’t leave the Önundrs to their fate. You know I won’t.”

Everyone stood. Asho took a step forward. “What’s going on?”

“None of your damn business,” snapped Gunnvaldr.

“We’re handy with these blades,” said Ser Wyland. “Perhaps we can help.”

Kolgrímr hesitated at the door. “You don’t know this land. What are the Önundrs to you?”

Asho felt a jolt of excitement run through him. He fought to sound calm. “Nothing, yet.”

Kolgrímr stared at him, eyes hard. “All right. We’re going to be moving fast.”

Kethe rose to her feet, hand on her sword’s scabbard just below the hilt. “Fetch our men.”

Kolgrímr nodded and turned to the man who was waiting anxiously outside. “Bring their friends. I’ll be waiting for you at the edge of town. Hurry.”

“Kolgrímr,” said Gunnvaldr, and there was a tone of pleading in his voice. “This is no bear.”

“I know, Father.” Kolgrímr stepped forward, placed his hands on Gunnvaldr’s shoulders, and kissed his brow. “I’ll be back.” He then kissed his mother’s cheek, and stepped to the door. “Ready?”

Asho pulled his cloak on and tied it tight. Ser Wyland and Kethe did the same. They then plunged back out into the night, whose cold was almost shocking after the close and smoky heat of Gunnvaldr’s home. Kolgrímr rushed down the narrow street and Asho hurried after, almost breaking into a run. A left, down a block, and then they entered the town square, which was dominated by the watch tower’s massive legs. Back into another narrow alley, past a dozen houses, and then Kolgrímr stopped as the town came to an abrupt end and the night and the mountains loomed large before them.

“What are we hunting?” Ser Wyland’s voice had changed. Gone was the amiable tone. Now he was all business, a seasoned knight, and Kolgrímr responded immediately.

“A creature of darkness. We won’t know what it looks like till we see it, but it leaves large prints. Bare feet about this long.” Kolgrímr held his hands almost three feet apart.

“A giant?” Asho couldn’t deny the thrill that ran through him. Being a knight had always symbolized defeating Lord Kyferin. Suddenly it held a new potential, a chance to fight evil like in the tales of old.

“Like I said, we won’t know till we see it.”

Kethe stepped in closer. “How long has it been stalking your farms?” She was almost breathless, and Asho realized she was as excited and scared as he was.

Kolgrímr’s response was somber. “Three weeks. Two farms have been destroyed.”

Ser Wyland said sharply, “No survivors?”

“None,” said Kolgrímr.

A band of men came jogging up, their torches startlingly bright. The four guards were with them, faces both alarmed and suspicious. The sight of Ser Wyland calmed them quickly. All told, they formed a band eighteen strong.

“Listen up,” said Kolgrímr, taking a torch from one of the men and holding it aloft. “The beast’s heading toward the Önundrs, but it’s moving through the woods. We’ll run along the forest’s edge and cut to the farm at the Neck. With luck we’ll get the Önundrs away and be ready for it when it appears. We move fast. Now.”

Kolgrímr turned and jogged into the darkness. Ser Wyland nodded to the guards, assuring them that they were not being coerced, and together they set out, a ragged band of huffing men, three torches held up to light their way. The flames hissed and streamed in the wind, casting a fitful light across the rocky ground. Overhead, the moon shone brightly, one night past full, and Asho wished they could quench the torches and run by its silver light. If only the others could see as well as he in the dark. He ran, one hand on his sword hilt, eyes on the ground immediately before him. Soon his breath was coming in pants, his spit thick in the back of his mouth. It was hard work to run uphill in a full hauberk with a heavy shield on his back. To their right Asho could see the forest’s edge, a black belt of evergreen firs. As they ran, the forest drew ever closer, until Asho saw the break in its line where they would plunge through to a higher meadow.

“Here,” said Kolgrímr, breathing heavily. “Through the Neck and we’re but ten minutes away.”

He’d slowed to a fast walk. Asho drank down deep gulps of cold air. Sweat was running down his back beneath the padded coat he was wearing under his chainmail. This was dangerous, he knew; should that sweat cool, he’d grow dangerously chilled.

Moving forward, the group approached the wood. Rime-covered puddles crunched underfoot. Everything was still but for the hiss of their torches and their ragged breathing.

“Catch your breath,” said Kolgrímr. “Steady. We’ve a steep climb before us, and then a hard fight.”

They reached the edge of the forest. Asho couldn’t see into it at all; the pines presented a solid wall of dark needles. It was sheer luck that he was staring at the right spot and thus saw it emerge from the woods. Like a nightmare unfolding into the heart of a dream, it was suddenly there, vast, silent, and impossibly hideous.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Kethe’s exhilaration was almost feverish. They’d accepted her amongst their number without comment, warriors all, men who knew no pity or remorse when it came to battle. This was no game, no rarefied outing. This was a hunt, a mission to save innocents, and the danger was all too real. There was no room here for her doubts and pain, her qualms and insecurities. All around her ran armed men with violence on their minds. The cold was shocking, but she barely felt it; she felt like she could run forever, so fleet of foot that she could leap up the cliff faces with a single bound. She was one with them. Grim determination steeled her exultation. She would not show weakness. She would not show fear. When the moment of truth came, she would be at the fore and would prove that she deserved the right to be counted amongst their number.

Asho ran by her side, breathing in harsh, controlled pants. His hauberk was a ponderous, unwieldy thing, easily twice the weight of her own. She felt lithe and agile in her armor, the leather supple, the chain so cunningly linked it felt like a second skin. The moon shone full and pregnant in the sky, and the land was silver and obsidian, ethereal and rife with the promise of danger and wonder both.

They veered to cut right by the edge of the forest. Kolgrímr spoke, gave his orders, and the band slowed. Kethe fought the urge to keep running, to take the lead and show them all how fearless she was. Instead, she cut her pace and inhaled deeply. The ground underfoot was uneven and hard, the dirt having frozen into iron ridges, and the puddles were slick and treacherous with ice. The moss and dry grass crunched with each step.

The forest drew close, a deeper dark against the night. Slowing down had been wise; she hadn’t realized how hard she’d been pushing herself. She turned to smile at Asho and saw him go rigid with shock. Kethe started to turn to follow his stare, but then it was amongst them.

Yells and screams shattered the night. She heard the sound of tearing flesh. Hot liquid spattered across her face. She drew her blade, but then someone slammed against her and they both went down. The man stank of sweat and old fur and thrashed as he fought to stand, only to disappear as if something had simply yanked him up and away. Kethe battled the terror that was rising up within her, that wanted to clench her limbs and lock down on her mind, cause her to freeze and go still. She’d still not even
seen
the damn thing. Instead, she rose to a crouch, looked up, and saw it.