The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (59 page)

“If this gets ugly,” he said over his shoulder, “run. Don’t wait for me. Save yourself.”

Biter shook his head from side to side, causing his mane to flop around, then lowered his muzzle to crop the grass.

The sound grew louder. Ser Wyland had been right: Kitan was coming up straight and center, making no attempt to hide his approach. Of course, he thought his attack a surprise; why would he waste his time skulking through the woods this far out from the Hold?

The first men came around the curve of the path and halted at the sight of him. They were on foot and clad in hauberks similar to his own, their gleam bright in the morning sun. Mail coifs covered their heads, and each was wearing a tabard bearing his own heraldic emblems. Knights, then, not common militia. They were marching four abreast. As one, the lead men drew their blades and unslung their shields. Tiron saw the Golden Vipers standing at the front, twin faces mirroring their hope for violence.

Voices called up from behind, and one of the lead knights raised his hand without turning, demanding silence. They took their time examining the woods to both sides, which was wise; a common ploy would be to hide archers in the shadows and stop the column with a lone man up front, turning them into vulnerable prey.

“Good morning,” called the lead knight as he stepped forward and broke rank. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked to be in his mid-thirties, which meant he had enough experience to avoid rash or novice mistakes. His face was broad and marked by a pale vertical scar that twisted one eye almost closed and his mouth into a permanent sneer. Still, Tiron liked the look of the man. He had the air of a competent professional.

“Decent enough,” Tiron called back. “You lot marching from the Talon?”

“We are. I am Ser Dirske, of Laurel Mount. And you, ser knight?”

“Tell Ser Laur that Ser Tiron would like a word. Tell him I bring good, if bloody, news.”

Ser Dirske raised the tip of his blade. “How did you know Ser Laur marches with us?”

“An educated guess. Don’t make me spell it out and finish making you look like a fool. Now tell him.”

Ser Dirske stood still, lips pursed, studying him. Clearly, he was not a man used to being insulted. Too bad; insults came too easily to Tiron’s lips. To cement his confidence, Tiron slid his blade back into its scabbard.

Ser Dirske spoke over his shoulder to one of the men, and Tiron saw the message being passed back. A sizeable force, then. Ser Wyland had guessed thirty knights with perhaps twice that number in men-at-arms. Ser Tiron had thought it the opposite: twice the knights and half the soldiers. No matter. He’d find out soon enough.

Five minutes passed, and then a familiar figure pressed his way forward. Ser Laur had chosen to march in his plate armor, it seemed; the man was either preternaturally resilient or a complete fool—or both. His enameled blue plate gleamed like the ocean beyond Zoe’s harbor, and the other knights opened a path for him with respect. His sumptuous blue cloak nearly brushed the dirt, and his hand was resting on the pommel of his sword.

“Ser Tiron!” His voice was cheerful and pitched to carry. “It’s a pleasure to see you. And all alone? Don’t tell me you were en route to the Talon?”

Tiron took hold of Biter’s bridle and began walking forward. “Meet me halfway, Kitan. I’ve words for you alone.”

Kitan turned to his men and spoke a command; Tiron saw protest form on Dirske’s lips, but then the man bit them back. Reaching up, Kitan removed his helm, then tucked it under his arm and marched up to meet Tiron perhaps two dozen yards ahead of his men.

“Nice pony,” said Kitan. “How good is he at a charge?”

“Biter?” Tiron turned to consider him. “Vicious. Once I can convince him to get moving. Now—” He turned, opened a saddlebag, and pulled free a bloodstained roll of blue cloth. “A gift for your father.”

Kitan narrowed his eyes as he took the cloth. “A gift, you say? He does so like gifts.” He carefully unrolled it, and stopped at the sight of the auburn braid. It was as thick as a man’s wrist and coiled like a snake, easily two feet in length. One end had been rudely hacked, and most of it was dark and crusted with blood. Kitan took it up in one hand, then brought it to his nose and inhaled. His eyes remained locked on Tiron. “Ah. I recognize that scent.” He pressed the braid to his lips, then dropped it back onto the cloth. “Now, this will merit a true reward. But why only hair? Where is the pretty head that goes with it?”

“Crushed and lying in Mythgræfen Hold.” Tiron felt something coalesce within him, a dangerous and cold certainty that he would see this man dead. “I’m not in the habit of carrying body parts with me.”

“A pity. Did you ruin the face?”

Birds called overhead and flitted through the branches of a mountain ash, causing their shadows to dart across the trail. The light was syrupy gold, the colors of the forest around them rich and vibrant or drowned in shadow. Surreal, to be surrounded by such natural beauty while faced with such a man. Tiron shook his head slowly. “No. I struck her from behind while she was praying. Why?”

“While she was praying? Oh, that’s rich.” Something entered Kitan’s eyes then. “And good. I’d like to see her face, cold and still. Eyes wide with that final flash of pain and shock. And Father demanded I bring back her head. Nothing less, not even this golden braid, will suffice.” Carefully he wrapped the hair in the blue cloth once more, but made no sign of giving it back. He glanced down at it, then back up at Tiron with a smile. “A keepsake. Now, what of the others? I’m sure they objected to your revenge.”

“They did. Or would have, if I’d let them.” Turning again, Tiron reached for the hilt of a blade that was strapped alongside the saddle, and drew it forth with a rapid flourish. Kitan immediately stepped back and drew a foot of his sword before stopping. Tiron smiled. “What’s wrong, Kitan? Afraid of me?”

Kitan bared his teeth in what might have passed for a smile. “No, just amused at your sense of humor.” He straightened and took the sword. “I know this crest. It’s Ser Wyland’s.” He paused, eyebrows raised. “Well, then. You are a most thorough man. Ser Wyland is dead?”

Tiron nodded. His disgust made it easy to look hard and cruel. “He is. I left thereafter.”

Kitan sighed. “A pity, really. Ser Wyland might have offered me some amusement. I’d hoped for a good fight to justify all this effort. Still, you’ve done well. What of the others? The squire? Kethe?”

“They live. I didn’t set out to massacre the whole group. They must still be back at the Hold with the remaining three guards and Brocuff.”

“Only three? I thought ten guards went through.”

“They did. Seven of them had a change of heart upon seeing their new home. They disappeared two days in.”

Kitan nodded. “Pathetic. And you? You were marching to the Talon?”

Tiron’s smile was wry. “You promised me a reward and a pardon. I was coming to collect.”

“Let’s delay that reward a few days more. Lead us to Mythgræfen. We need to kill the survivors and collect some heads. Then I’ll send you back with a token force to feast and celebrate to your heart’s content. Agreed?”

Tiron frowned. “A token force? You’re not returning to the Talon?”

“No, unfortunately.” Kitan sighed dramatically. “My father must be most displeased with me. He’s tasked me with rebuilding the Hold and garrisoning it properly as once our family used to do. Foolish of him. He’s spending a small fortune on gathering supplies and hiring craftsmen to send through the Raven’s Gate two weeks hence. It seems he takes our old family legends quite seriously.”

Tiron laughed harshly. “He clearly doesn’t take the legends seriously enough. Hasn’t he heard how every force that’s tried the same has disappeared?”

“Oh, yes.” Kitan’s eyes were cold. “But he’s no fool. He’s petitioned his Grace for assistance. With the kragh refusing to take the field, the Grace is only too thankful for the several hundred men-at-arms we’ve sent to help with the Agerastian siege, along with the knights we’ve promised once this expedition has been seen to. In exchange, he’s lent us one of his Virtues.”

Tiron’s mocking grin froze on his face. “His what?”

Kitan shrugged, as if it were of no matter. “Makaria, the Virtue of Happiness. He rides with us. You’ll meet him soon enough.” He paused. “What’s the matter, Ser Tiron? You look almost ill.”

“Nothing.” Tiron forced himself to relax, though his mind was racing. A Virtue? Riding with Kitan? “It seems a waste, though, sending a Virtue here when the Agerastians are at our throats.”

Again, Kitan shrugged. “My father has promised his Grace access to something high up in these mountains that has secured his unwavering support. Regardless, it is done. Now, shall we proceed? The quicker we reach our destination, the sooner you can return to civilization.”

Tiron nodded. By the Black Gate, he thought. A Virtue.

They marched all day back up the trail and camped in the lee of a granite ridge. Tiron marched at the front of the column, leading Biter by hand, and didn’t catch a glimpse of the Virtue until dusk had fallen. He kept to himself and was ignored by the others, which suited him fine.

It felt strange to be on the march again in the company of knights—the comments, the conversation around the campfires, the jokes and abuse, the rasp of whetstones on blades and the hurrying of squires as they cleaned and cooked and served. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was amongst the Black Wolves once more, marching toward some distant encounter. But these men were not striding into battle; rather, they were headed toward a slaughter. Which made the familiarity strangely nauseating; it was hard to hate these men when they made the same kinds of jokes or offered familiar complaints.

Tiron lay on his bedroll, far from the fire and crowd, and watched Makaria. The Virtue sat apart from the knights, his back to a knotted iron ash, wearing pure white and slowly plucking chords on a lute that fit into the palm of his hand. He wasn’t playing a song, but seemed rather to play notes almost at random as they suited him. He exuded a serenity that fascinated Tiron; the dark-skinned man seemed his perfect opposite, at peace with the night and the world and himself.

Tiron thought of rising and approaching him, engaging him in conversation. The Virtues were the ultimate warriors; every knight on some level wished to emulate their prowess in combat. They were the stuff of legend, the military chosen of the Ascendant, and their roles in history and the founding of Ascension were the stuff of children’s tales and myth. And yet, the one time Makaria had gazed upon Tiron it had been with disgust, and no wonder, if Kitan had told him that Tiron had murdered Iskra while she was in prayer.

No, it was best not to tempt fate. Instead, Tiron turned and gazed up at the stars. They were brilliant, this high up in the mountains. The sound of the knights’ laughter washed over him. Had he been like these men? They followed Kitan without question, just as he had followed Lord Kyferin right up until he’d killed Sarah.

Tiron scowled and rolled onto his side, staring into the black vastness of the woods beyond the ridge. Had he ever felt qualms about razing another lord’s lands as part of a campaign to defeat him? No. He’d burned farms, had cut down farmers who had run suicidally at him with rusted blades or thin spears. He’d never raped, never tortured, but there had been those amongst their company who had. Tiron had simply turned away from that, telling himself that such atrocities were the reality of war. Those men would be punished when they died, being reborn in Zoe or farther down the chain. Agerastos. Bythos, even, for the worst.

Tiron closed his eyes, but still his memories plagued him. Old screams, torn from throats over a decade ago, the deaths forgotten by the world now except for him. He’d been following orders. That was what a knight did. Your lord said march, and by the Black Gate, you marched. You lord said charge, and you slew. Burn, and you burned. These knights had been ordered to massacre, and they were cheerfully marching to do just that.

Would he have done any different if Lord Kyferin had given him this order four years ago?

In his heart, he knew he’d be sitting amongst these men, complaining about rust and the quality of the food, laughing at the tales of brothels and swapped sisters. The familiarity and faint nostalgia suddenly sickened him. He thought of Iskra, alone and defiant in the Hold, beautiful and calm and disdainful. He was too steeped in blood and ruin to ever be worth such as her. And to think she had belonged to Enderl Kyferin, all these years. The Ascendant’s ways were beyond cruel.

Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep, but even after the other knights had settled down in their tents and the fires had been quenched, sleep was a long time coming.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN