The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (54 page)

His relief, therefore, was immense. He insisted on having Tharok ride by his side as he returned to the south, a ride of some five hours down from the high valley into the broader and gentler slopes below, the low mountains giving way to foothills and long ridges that eventually sank deeper into the ground before becoming the plains upon which he and the Orlokor lived. Gold, his great tent city, sat in the heart of the largest valley, a great conglomeration of huts and tanned hide tents, the permanent home of almost a thousand kragh who formed the heart of the Orlokor tribe.

A part of Tharok wondered at this, at males who lived settled and still like female kragh, not roaming and roving with other males of their clan as they hunted and fought and protected their territory. Always remaining stationary, the world about them never changing, always seeing the exact same sight from the entrances of their tents.

As they descended the last slopes toward the tents and the few stone houses, Tharok discovered another reason why the sedentary life would never appeal to him: the place reeked of waste and filth. Clearly they had not figured out how to deal with the accumulation of trash and sewage caused by staying in one place indefinitely. Numerous solutions presented themselves to Tharok as he gazed upon the refuse. He chose to voice none of them.

“Gaze upon Gold, young Tharok, and marvel. Here stands my court, the center of our tribe, the center of the world. Around this valley the stars swing, and I sit in my hall and allow the humans to send their ambassadors to me. Food there is in plenty, and wealth pours in from all the lands we now hold. Ten years ago we conquered this land from various loose tribes and clans that held it, your father and I, and then we went on to smash the Hrakar themselves! Now? Never has a tribe grown so strong, so numerous, so powerful!”

Tharok nodded, turning to study the high ridges of the valley and note the guard outposts and the flocks of sheep that grazed on the lush grass that seemed to billow from the ground like smoke from the peaks of volcanoes. Everywhere he looked, there were lowland kragh, hundreds to be seen at any time, herding, going to and fro on unknown business, driving carts down into Gold or leaving on horseback on urgent missions.

“There are indeed many of you, Porloc-krya,” he said.

“Yes, and by the Sky Mother, our numbers grow every day, every year. I myself now have more children and grandchildren than I can remember, and trust me, that is saying a lot.” He paused. “I can see it in your face, Tharok—I can sense your disgust. You are highland kragh. You don’t understand why we sit still, why we Orlokor don’t roam as your clans do. I saw the same expression on your father’s face when I told him of my plans to build a city. He thought I wanted to copy the humans, but no. There is an advantage to it.”

“I see the advantage,” said Tharok. “That much is clear. You establish yourself in a central location, and that allows you to begin to organize your power and lands. You begin to create a system to control your tribe as it grows. You gather wealth, you gather your males, and there is safety in numbers with the Tragon and Hrakar and others watching you for signs of weakness.”

Porloc glanced at Tharok out of the corner of his eye, his face neutral. Finally, he nodded. “Yes, indeed. The humans have much to teach us, I’ve always said. Look at the marvels they build, how they work with rock and stone. True, they have much longer lives in which to master such things. They write their strange language down on paper and preserve knowledge that way. They are able to do things that I don’t even understand, but that doesn’t mean we can’t learn, can’t grow.”

Porloc warmed to his topic. They were getting closer to Gold now, a mere ten minutes from passing between the first tents. “Look at our greatest source of income. Tolls! Who would have thought, ten years ago when your father and I took this land by sword, that I would hold it with such a strange practice. If somebody wants to cross the mountains, humans looking to trade with the Tragon, say, we demand coin or shaman stone. They pay; we let them pass. So simple! It is like shaking wealth from the trees. We don’t even need to fight any more – especially not after that disaster in the human land of Ennoia.”

“Disaster?” Tharok roused himself, suddenly interested.

“It is not worth speaking of,” said Porloc, waving a hand as if warding away a bad smell. “The human empire came as they do from Abythos and paid good shaman stone for the help of our clans in one of their conflicts. Yet they lied to us. They did not tell us we would be fighting against human shamans. They rained down spirit wrath upon our kragh, who naturally fled and were destroyed. Shameful. Even now their warlords and high priests are begging for us to return and fight for them. But we need not fight their shamans! We don’t need to work! Why die for humans in a far away land we shall never walk to, never conquer ourselves? All we need do is put some sixty kragh at the mouth of the pass and demand payment. And the wealth comes in. The humans grumble, but what can they do? They promised us riches if we destroyed the Hrakar, and did we not? Who today fears the grubby Hrakar? Not I. Not I and my great tribe in our city of Gold!”

The path leveled out, and together they rode into the city. The first few tents were mean raw hide assemblies that Tharok would have refused to house a goat in, but soon they were riding past greater huts, huts of such size that it would have taken bending fully grown trees down to create such space and architecture. Kragh by the dozens and then hundreds lined the path, pushing their heads out of hut entrances or simply filling in the spaces between houses or lining the path proper, staring at Tharok and then pointing at the blade at Porloc’s side. Kragh began to call out their warlord’s name, and Porloc raised his fist in a signal of victory. The warlord had returned.

Behind them the kragh horde fragmented, the hundreds of warriors that Porloc had gathered splintering and moving into Gold to find their families or to spend coin on food and drink. The Red River tribe were to camp just outside Gold and await Tharok there, though Maur and Golden Crow and a few select others were to come later that night to join the celebration at Porloc’s compound. Tharok sat tall, with his chin raised as they moved forward, followed only by Porloc’s own honor guard, some fifteen lowland kragh in metal armor that clinked and clanked as they walked.

Porloc chattered on, but Tharok barely heard him. Thoughts assailed him as he saw more of the city, strategies on how to take it if ever he should attack Gold, the benefits of siege, of fire, of using pestilence as a weapon. Conversely, he saw dozens of ways to improve the city, ranging from the benefits of paving the roads to establishing regular patrols by trusted clans to ensure peace and order. He wondered at the lowland mating rituals, at the authority of their women; for the first time he questioned why lowland kragh didn’t grow tusks or swell in size with stature, why their skin didn’t darken when they ate flesh. Theories presented themselves, and he tried to piece together a history from the fragmented tales he had heard as a child. How many centuries ago had the lowland kragh descended from the mountains and begun to change?

The thoughts came faster and faster, stimulated by all he saw. Tharok felt almost nauseated. It didn’t help that Gold stank. Offal and refuse filled the streets, and children ran and played without regard for the filth underfoot. They passed a large market in which vendors hawked and sold their wares, where the sizzle of meat on a spit competed with the stench of feces, and there Tharok saw his first humans manning a stall, their tall, skinny bodies seeming to be without muscle or mass, their delicate skin the color of pale wood. Three of them were selling weapons, metal swords and axes that gleamed as if newly polished in the sun, and a deep crowd was formed before them, kragh reaching out to try to grip the wares only to be admonished by the humans in crude kragh. One of the human men turned to watch them pass, his face bearded like a mountain goat’s, almost as tall as a highland kragh and dressed in rich robes of brown and umber. Tharok held his gaze, studying the man, and then they were past.

There was a slave gallery to their right, where a number of lowland kragh were being sold alongside three bedraggled humans. One of the humans was female, standing naked in the thin afternoon sun, and Tharok stared hard as they passed, marveling at how slender her legs were, how thin her forearms, how slight her body. She looked like a bird, so frail that were he to roll over her in the middle of the night he was sure he would snap every bone in her body beneath his weight. That was no woman; Maur was a woman. That human wouldn’t even be able to lift a pack, much less carry it all day through the mountains. Still, there was something to that smooth, sunburned skin, to the mass of white hair that looked like moonlight caught in a web.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a towering figure in irons. It was a highland kragh, chained up behind the humans, his skin impressively black, his physique powerful and ponderous. Tharok drew his mountain goat to a halt. Porloc stopped his own steed a few paces on, looking back at Tharok with impatience and surprise. This wasn’t the time to make inquiries about a slave. This wasn’t the time to show Porloc anything but decisiveness and solidarity. He couldn’t start questioning Gold’s practices within moments of arriving.

And yet, a deeper part of Tharok wanted to know that highland kragh’s tale, and flet disgusted at seeing him chained up like a common lowland kragh. So what if it was a poor decision to walk over there and demand answers? To free him, perhaps?

No, one single highland kragh was not important in the grand scheme of things. There were hundreds like him being sold and used across the land. Tharok’s true goals would lead to a revolution in this system of slavery. He couldn’t risk his current standing with Porloc by acting belligerent and demanding here in the square. He should put this highland kragh out of mind and move on.

“Is there a problem, Tharok?”

Porloc’s honor guard were milling around, uneasy and watching Tharok with suspicious gazes.

Tharok forced himself to shake his head. “No problem, my warlord. I was just admiring the size of this square. Very impressive.”

Porloc nodded and turned his horse to continue riding. A second later Tharok urged his mountain goat on as well. He wanted to glance back at the slave. He forced himself not to, but felt a rising sense of frustration within him that he couldn’t explain to himself.

Another market, more huts, and then finally they came to Porloc’s own hut, built of thick stone and painted black, two levels high and with a huge wall around it enclosing a compound. It was practically a fortress. Tharok stopped his mountain goat and stared, giving his mind a moment to adjust to the sight. It was all hard angles and rough stone, tanned hides falling to obscure the windows, guards standing at attention at the open gate.

“Welcome, Tharok of the Red River, to the Heart of Gold, my home.” Porloc studied him to gauge how impressed he was. “You will stay here as my guest. Tonight we feast, but for now I’ll give you time to yourself. I must meet with my clan and prepare for the next few weeks. Rest now. We will speak again soon.”

Porloc dismounted, allowed his horse to be taken away, and then headed off even as several other lowland kragh moved forward to talk to him.

Tharok sat on his mountain goat and considered the compound, the rough rock from which it was built, the various lowland kragh guarding it. It felt alien. Too human. He studied Porloc’s fat figure as he walked away, World Breaker strapped to his back, and plans revolved in his mind. He closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to expand and contract, interweaving in a manner he could barely comprehend even as they evolved. Everything was going according to plan, he thought.

But whose plan is it? Is this the circlet thinking, or is it me?

Tharok growled, reached up, and tore the circlet from his brow.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Dusk was falling when they stumbled into Hrething, Ser Wyland and a completely recovered Ser Tiron hauling the horn along the ground behind them with two thick ropes. The demon had rotted away before their eyes, shrinking and diminishing until only a putrid mountain goat’s skeleton was left.

Kethe hadn’t spoken a word since awakening, and Asho couldn’t help but cast worried looks her way every few moments, although he received no acknowledgment in return. It was as if she were walking in a dream, her brow furrowed in thought, her eyes never lifting from the forest floor.

Mæva had excused herself, explaining that she wasn’t interested in being pilloried by the Hrethings. Despite Ser Wyland’s protestations of protection, she laughed, blew him a kiss, then disappeared back into the forest. Ser Wyland had blushed and muttered something ungracious beneath his breath.