The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (44 page)

High overhead he saw a small hawk hovering, stationary in the great sky, a speck of darkness against the unfathomable blue. He watched it until it folded its wings and plummeted down from the sky to disappear from view into a higher valley, focused on its prey. Musing, he scratched at his jaw. Normally a chieftain surrounded himself with brothers, uncles, grandsons, his clan serving as his enforcers and eyes and ears in the tribe. But he was alone, unprecedented for a chieftain, and would be without the traditional core unit with which he could administer his orders. He would need to recruit others to positions of trust quickly before he became too isolated and his position was thus endangered through lack of close support.

Rocking back onto his heels, enjoying the sensation of the sun on his still-bare skin, Tharok half-closed his eyes so that prisms of multicolored light played across his eyelashed view. His lies about Ogri’s prophecies had struck a chord within his chest. For too long the highland kragh had been fragmented, fractious, at each other’s throats and at the beck and call of the more numerous and wealthy lowland tribes. For too long they had served as the shock troops of the Tragon and Orlokor, taking herd animals and metal weapons in exchange for their blood and loyalty. The age of preying on and raiding each other had to end, along with the traditions of slavery and stealing wives, and the endless internecine fighting. Only then would the kragh as a whole rise to greatness once more.

He already had control of the Red River Tribe, a confederacy of some twelve clans that would follow him as long as his rule was of benefit to their fortunes. Twelve clans, perhaps fifty warriors in all. Not enough to do more than raid the other tribes, to engage in skirmishes and midnight thefts. He would need to swell their numbers before he could think of forcing the other chieftains to follow him, to fall in line. The traditional roles would have to be shattered, the expected way of life changed.

A figure was trudging up the slight slope toward him, hunched and twisted. Tharok watched him come, and did not move or stand but rather stayed silent with his eyes half-lidded as Toad presented himself, breathing hard.

“Tharok-krya, you have awakened.” When Tharok refused to comment on that obvious remark, Toad continued, “I served Wrok well and faithfully for many years, and would serve you just the same. I hope I don’t need to remind you that it was my storytelling that gave you the opportunity to rise to your current rank.” Tharok turned slowly to fix Toad with one eye, and the small kragh stumbled back. “I mean, I’m sure you would have risen to this position by yourself. I am proud of the help I gave, is all, and would give more if you would have it.”

“Food,” grunted Tharok. “Clothing. And send kragh to open this hut and let the wind blow Wrok’s spirit away.”

“Yes, straight away,” said Toad, grinning and moving back quickly, bobbing his head. “As you command!”

He turned and rushed down the shallow slope, then moved into one of the large tents. Good. For now, Toad would serve.

Over the next hour Wrok’s hut was taken apart, the furs pulled free and the tarp removed from the branches so that only the framework stood, open to the sun and the air, allowing the wind to usher Wrok free of his belongings and to dance perhaps around the Dragon’s Tear. Toad brought Tharok rough mountain clothing, new boots, and a heavy coat to guard against the cold, all of it of fine quality, donated by the Illkor clan, who were clearly currying favor.

Dressed, he descended to the great fire, where he dined on cold lamb and small, withered apples, eating heartily for the first time in days. It was important to eat meat. Too much time spent eating vegetables or fasting would lighten his skin. Other kragh gave him wide berth, watching him surreptitiously as they went about their business, and for now he was content to allow the distance. He was closely connected to none of them, and the distance and silence would serve to build his reputation more than chattering in a familiar manner ever could.

Tharok looked up as a figure approached, moving with confidence and lethal fluidity, the sleeve of his coat tied off just below the shoulder. The weapons master lowered himself onto a log across from Tharok. His sharp, black eyes studied the new chieftain, his harsh, drawn face revealing nothing of his thoughts. Tharok studied him in turn, chewing slowly on the last of the lamb, and then threw the great bare bone into the cinders of the fire and wiped his hand on his thigh.

“You could have volunteered to fight me last night,” said Tharok. “You could have taken vengeance for your arm. Made me pay for the injury my father dealt you.”

“As far as I can tell, you are not your father,” Barok said.

“But his blood flows in my veins. You could have pressed to fight me, and old Wrok would have gladly let you. Why did you hold back?”

Barok pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, and then finally shrugged one shoulder. “You are not your father, but, more importantly and in different ways, neither was Wrok. With your father and the Gray Smoke gone, Wrok would have led us to ruin, his choices dictated by other masters.”

Tharok nodded. “Good. You saw which way the wind was blowing.”

“I did, eventually. Maur and the women’s circle understood the events before they played out, not just during the fact like myself.”

“So, you do not wish to fight for the Tragon.”

Barok was watching him with great intensity now, as if he were a hawk himself, hovering in the air. “Fighting for the Tragon would mean allying against the Orlokor.”

“There could be profit in that,” said Tharok, leaning back and opening his hands. “After all, the Orlokor are now the largest tribe, the most powerful. They control all of the slopes to the south, the whole arc above the human city. They have goats, sheep and horses by the thousands, and wealth from controlling the mountain passes, and they trade directly with the humans themselves. Many riches to be had for a bold tribe. Much shaman stone.”

“I was one of the kragh who helped your father negotiate the Gray Smoke and Red River alliance with the Orlokor. I was there when your father became blood brother with Porloc, when your father swore to follow his lead. I’d honor that bond, even though it wasn’t my blood.”

Tharok nodded. “Good. That was the answer I wanted. Once you were trusted by my father, and you worked closely with him, making his goals your own. That you fell out and lost your arm lies between you and him, but I would have you work by my side and help me with your wisdom, your skill. I want you to remain the weapons master, but more importantly, I want to be able to count on you as I would a member of my own clan.”

He stared Barok in the eye, chin lifted, waiting. The weapons master returned his gaze, taking his measure, and then, slowly, nodded. They reached out and clasped each other’s forearms, squeezing as hard as they could, and then released.

“Good,” said Tharok. “My first request is that you oversee those six kragh I delegated last night, and make sure they bring me Krol. I’m going to speak to the women’s circle now, and if they agree, we march tonight for the lands of the Orlokor.”

Barok raised an eyebrow. “The whole tribe?”

Tharok grinned. “The Little Sister Moon waits for no kragh, Barok. I will not let our clans disperse. We move fast because there is much to be done.”

The weapons master nodded and rose to his feet. “I’ll bring you Krol. Good luck.”

Tharok watched him leave, chewing absently on the remaining sliver of lamb flesh that he had tucked away in the lining of his cheek. Time was passing, so he rose, feeling pain in his side, his arm still weak, and took a deep breath, trying not to show any of it to curious eyes. He reached down to where World Breaker was slung by his side and briefly grasped the hilt. Warmth and power flowed into him, and he stood for a while, marveling at the blade. For the first time he wondered where it had come from, who had crafted it. Ogri had clearly benefited from its use, but there was no mention of how he had found it, or who had made it. Ogri the Uniter had simply appeared one day, as the tales told it, blade in hand, and had begun the unstoppable juggernaut that had been the united kragh tribes.

He heard footsteps, and he turned to regard the women’s circle as they followed Maur into the clearing, moving to stand before him in a semicircle, Maur in the center. She wasn’t the eldest, the largest, or even the meanest; that title belonged to old Ikrolla, who was given wide berth whenever possible, her tongue sharper than even the weapons master’s blade. Still, Maur had been chosen to join the women’s circle at the incredibly early age of nine, barely out of her childhood, and now at fifteen she was a woman in full, with an authority that had reined in Wrok and defied his father on numerous occasions when their tribes had met. Tharok had watched his father go toe-to-toe with Maur once, bellowing his commands and orders only to have them smash upon her implacable will as an avalanche would explode when it collided with a mighty boulder. He’d admired her then, one of the few to dare his father’s wrath, and now here she stood, gazing at him in exactly the same manner.

“Maur-krya,” he said, spreading open his hands and then looking to the six other females. Krilla loomed tall over the rest, and old Ikrolla stood hunched nearly in half, bent low over her iron walking stick, staring at him suspiciously with her knife-sharp eyes. He nodded to each, and then returned his attention to Maur. “It is good that we meet. There is much to discuss.”

“Indeed,” said Maur, her voice hard. “Such as your numerous lies, and how you, Tharok, who but yesterday was as brutish and forward as any kragh, are now standing before us wearing the title of warlord when we were sure that you were doomed to a life spent in slavery.”

Tharok smiled and spread his hands again. “I have charm. What can I say? Charm and luck beyond my fair share.” He sat, confident in having riled her further, and one by one the women found seats, whether it was on the log before him or on separate rocks. Only Krilla stayed standing, prodigious arms crossed over her prodigious bosom.

“Enough with the games. We only backed you last night because Wrok unfettered was an even worse option. Now you have to prove to us that we were right in our judgment, or you’ll find your tenure as warlord a lot shorter than you think.”

Tharok nodded, quickly adjusting his approach. Maur and the women’s circle could prove his greatest ally, or his undoing if he stepped wrong. Maur was too sharp for bluster or misdirection. He’d have to move carefully. “I understand, and as warlord submit to the council’s questioning.”

“Yesterday, when we spoke, you said that your father had been summoned by the Tragon to go on a raid. You said that you went with him, that you were all ambushed, and you escaped with your life to flee into the mountains.”

Tharok attempted to remain calm, collected. His words from before he had donned the circlet.

“Then Toad spins a tale in which Garok voluntarily searched out the Tragon, inspired by Ogri himself, and that you were sent to find the Blade in his stead. Perhaps you notice the discrepancies.”

Maur jutted out her chin and waited. The other women stirred, and all eyes were on him. Tharok returned Maur’s stare, his mind moving and spinning as quickly as it could, and then he made his call. There were no other kragh close by to overhear; none would dare intrude.

“The Tragon under the Throkkar brothers are moving to war. With the Hrakar smashed to the east, they are now the second largest tribe. Even so, they don’t stand a chance against the Orlokor, who probably, what, double their number, if not triple it? But if they were to gather the highland tribes to them, tribes such as the Red River under Wrok, and the remains of the Hrakar under whoever leads them now, well, then they would form a coalition that could challenge even Porloc in his valleys and foothills.”

The women had stilled. This, they had not expected.

Tharok pressed on, “Yet I ask myself, why now? Why do the Throkkar brothers move now against the Orlokor, who lie south of the Sky Mountains, a world away from their northern plains? What moves them to now gather the Hrakar to their side, to unite the highland tribes as the Orlokor once did when they moved against the Hrakar?”

Tharok stood now, energy seizing him. So much had become clear when he had donned the circlet, patterns emerging that he had never considered. It was a pleasure to finally speak them aloud. “It puts me in mind of the rise of the Orlokor. That was, what, ten years ago? My father was young, my age perhaps, when Porloc summoned him and Barok to his side, along with the Jurched, the Kilokar, the mighty Achorhai and all the other highland tribes. Did not the Tragon unite with the Orlokor against the mighty Hrakar, and together didn’t they all move to smash the Hrakar grip of the Dead Sky Pass?”

He stopped pacing and stared at Maur, who watched him with an inscrutable expression. “The Hrakar were mighty, and now they are fallen. The Orlokor are now mighty, but should the Tragon unite with the Hrakar and the highland tribes, there is little doubt that they too will fall, in time, with much loss of kragh lives. I imagine, were one to go back in time, to ask the humans who keep records of such things, that before the Hrakar rose in power, no doubt another tribe was mighty, and they fell to the Hrakar. Which sets me to thinking.”

He reached down and took hold of the hilt of World Breaker, drawing strength from the contact. “Our lives as kragh are one of cyclical war amongst each other. We are always taking down the strongest tribe. We are always reducing our own number. So, who benefits, in the long run? The answer becomes clear when you ask who now has access to the Dead Sky Pass? The humans out of their city of Abythos. Who trades with the Orlokor? The humans, bringing their Gate Stone and other goods through their magic portal. Who might be resenting how powerful the Orlokor have grown, and their control of the other two great passes through the mountains? The humans. And who might be now encouraging the Tragon to unite with the others and start the wars anew? The humans, safe and hidden away in their distant Ascendant Empire.”