The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (55 page)

Shadows were lengthening and the high peaks were catching the last of the setting sun’s rays, causing the ice that clung to the cliff faces to glimmer and glint with a crimson light. Down in the valley the wind had taken on a cruel chill, such that when they finally sighted the hunched and cluttered roofs of Hrething they all breathed a sigh of relief.

Two guards were posted on watch at the edge of town, and at the sight of their small band one raised a cry and ran back into the street, while the second jogged up the gradual slope to join them, slowing to a walk when he was ten paces away. It was Janderke, Asho saw, and his eyes were wide with wonder at the sight of their battered armor and the huge horn they were dragging behind them.

“Ser knights—” He stopped, unsure how to continue.

“We’re well,” said Ser Wyland with a weary smile. “And the demon is slain.” He stopped and straightened with a sigh. “Dead and rotting. How goes it below?”

“Well enough,” said Janderke, eyes locked on the horn. “Lady Kyferin is waiting in Gunnvaldr’s house, and everybody is tense. I think wagers were being made as to whether you’d return.”

Asho stepped forward. “And what did you bet, Janderke?”

“That you’d be returning victorious, of course!” He grinned. “You’ve made me a handful of copper. My thanks!”

“Well, earn it by putting your shoulder to this rope,” growled Ser Tiron. He’d been subdued since awakening, though he’d confirmed that he’d healed completely. “You’re half my age. You should do twice the work. Get over here.”

Together they finished the last descent. A crowd emerged from the streets to flood out onto the hillside. Hrethings and folk from Castle Kyferin all stood intermingled, and at the sight of them Ser Wyland stepped back, slid his hands under the twisted horn, and with a grunt hefted it high into the air. The evening light caught the wicked striations along its sinuous length and everybody let out a ragged cheer. Ser Tiron stepped up, Asho behind him, and, forming a line, they lowered the horn onto their shoulders. It was long enough to span the three of them. As one they marched down, Janderke and Kethe trailing them, and into the crowd. Men and women were grinning, bowing and cheering, and then the crowd opened and revealed Lady Kyferin, composed yet unable to hide and her pride and relief, hands laced together before her and her chin held high.

They dumped the horn down onto the rocky dirt, and Ser Wyland stepped forward and knelt. “We’ve slain the demon, my Lady. Its body has rotted away, leaving nothing but the bleached bones of a mountain goat.”

Again the crowd let out a cheer and Asho stepped forward to kneel. He felt hollow. How he’d dreamed of a moment like this, where he might be celebrated alongside other knights for performing a heroic deed. Yet now that it was happening, he felt like an imposter. It had been Kethe who had killed the demon. Kethe who had drawn it to the clearing. All he’d done was throw his blade to Tiron.

“I wish that I could say I never doubted your success,” said Lady Kyferin, her voice carrying, and the crowd felt silent. “But I feared for your lives. I worried that even the greatest four knights in the land might perish before such a terrible foe. I see now that I was foolish to do so.” She smiled, and Asho looked down. “Heroes of the land,” she called, her voice bright in the evening air. “You honor us with your valor! You bring safety to the land! Never were there truer knights!”

Again the crowd broke out into cheers, bold and celebratory. Asho looked back to where Kethe was kneeling. This moment was hers, but she was distant, gazing at her mother but seeming to look through her.

“Headman Gunnvaldr,” said Lady Kyferin, catching the crowd just as the cheers began to die down. “We have killed the demon that plagued your people and your land. Will you now help us as we have helped you?”

The old man stood straight, and for a moment Asho had a glimpse of the warrior he must have been in decades past. His son, Kolgrímr, was standing by his side, and both looked grave, proud, and fierce.

“It’s been years since something like this has prowled our woods,” said Gunnvaldr, his voice quiet. People grew silent and strained to hear. “We’d have lost many innocents and good men before we were able to bring it to ground. You have our thanks, the four of you. We’ll be singing songs of your deeds for years to come.”

Asho could almost hear Lady Kyferin’s thoughts:
It’s not your song we want
.

“But we made an agreement, and you’ve upheld your part in it, so the Hrethings will come to your aid. The Hold might be cursed and the high lands steeped in evil, but it’s clear that we’re no safer for being down here. We’ll do what we can to help you against those who are coming for your heads, and I’ll put the word out amongst the far farms so that good fighting men will gather to help in this struggle.” He looked up at his son, then back to Lady Kyferin. “Give us three days, and we’ll have a force assembled that should give any invading army pause.”

Lady Kyferin nodded, her expression grave. “You have my thanks, headman.”

“Now,” said Gunnvaldr, raising his voice at last. “It’s time we mark this moment with a feast! Kolgrímr, butcher one of the cows. Afildr, Leifi, broach two of the mead flasks from under my house. Rauðr, get the fire pit going in the square. Everyone! Tonight we gather to celebrate these men and women who have fought for us. Let’s show them our gratitude, and celebrate!”

Asho climbed to his feet. The crowd swirled past him, some even clapping him on the shoulder as they went. He saw Lady Kyferin step forward to speak with Kethe and then quickly draw her aside, her brow contracting in alarm.

Ser Wyland stepped up beside him, watching the two women. “Her powers are a death sentence unless she can get help.”

Asho felt his insides knot up. Should he mention what he had felt? The voice that had spoken to him? His failure to seize the moment? “All the more reason to defeat Laur’s men.”

Ser Wyland rubbed at his jaw. “Even if we defeat this invading force, we still won’t be in the clear. Laur holds Kyferin Castle, and he won’t leave the Raven’s Gate unguarded. The other Lunar Gate is in the Talon, and they won’t open their gates to us just because we’ve killed their knights.”

Asho nodded. “I guess not. Though there’s that Gate Audsley found beneath the Hold.”

“True. But only the Ascendant knows where that leads.”

Asho nodded soberly. “How long do you think she has?”

“That’s a question better put to the Magister. He might know. But not too long, I fear.”

Asho watched as Lady Kyferin shepherded her daughter away. Kethe looked lost, her eyes still blank with shock. Anger rose within him. “There must be something we can do.”

Ser Wyland arched an eyebrow in surprise. “I hadn’t realized you cared so much about her wellbeing.”

Asho started. “I—what? I don’t, I mean—of course I want the best for her.”

Ser Wyland stroked his mustache. “Mm-hmm. I must have misread the coldness between you two.”

Asho felt his face burn. “She’s a great knight. She’s proven herself again and again in battle.”

“She has, indeed.”

“Right. So. Now that we’ve got the support of the Hrethings, we can work on defeating the invading force.”

“Laur’s not going to take this attack lightly. He’ll send in an overwhelming force to make sure the deed is done quickly and thoroughly. Even if we get a hundred locals with bows and axes, I don’t think it will be enough.”

Asho watched the men and women as they hurried back into the town, laughing and with a spring in their step. “But it vastly increases our strength.”

“True. But think: How would you deploy those men? What would you have them do?”

Asho frowned. Lining them up into a regiment and having them face the invading knights in pitched battle would lead to their slaughter. “Their strength lies in their knowledge of the land,” he said. “They could shadow the invading force, attack them from a distance, and then fade away when the knights gave chase. Pick off stragglers.” Ser Wyland’s face remained impassive. “But… then the knights would fire Hrething when they passed through it and massacre the women and children—unless we had them sent up to the higher farms. But they still wouldn’t have anything to come home to.”

“Right.” Ser Wyland looked at the last of the villagers as they disappeared into Hrething. Ser Tiron had stepped away without a word. Only the two of them were now left standing outside the town. “That’s why Gunnvaldr was so reluctant to help us. He knows that his people can’t afford to pay the price of fighting Laur’s men. The fact that they’re willing to do so speaks to their honor.”

Asho felt anger flare within him. “So, what are you saying? That we shouldn’t use the Hrethings?”

“Not at all.” Ser Wyland smiled tiredly. “Who knows where they rank on the cycle of Ascension? I would wager as low as a Zoeian, perhaps even an Agerastian given their heresy. They would benefit in dying for our cause. It’s simply that we’re going to need to have an excellent plan if we’re to use them effectively. Fortunately for Lady Kyferin, she is served by some of the bravest knights I have ever had the privilege to fight alongside.”

Asho looked away.

“What is it?”

Asho felt helplessness rise up within him. “Nothing.” He hesitated. “I just feel the fool.”

“The fool? What are you talking about?”

Asho turned away. “I thought myself strong. That I could become Lady Kyferin’s most valuable knight.” He snorted. “Instead, I’ve fumbled every opportunity, and worse yet, risked the lives of my friends through my actions.”

The silence drew out between them. Asho could feel the weight of Wyland’s gaze. He fought the urge to kick at a stone. It had been a mistake to open up.

“You’ve fought bravely.” Wyland’s voice was stern. “Why are you denigrating your accomplishments?”

A great wound tore open in Asho’s soul, and his bitterness came flooding forth. “Bravely? I was beaten soundly at the tournament. I failed to help Kethe when the demon attacked. Then, all I did in today’s fight was throw Tiron my sword so he could stab the demon. Every time I’m faced with a chance to act nobly, I throw the chance to the winds. I don’t trust my instincts. I don’t know what to do.” He wanted to laugh. “And I thought I’d become Lady Kyferin’s greatest knight. How pathetic.”

Wyland didn’t answer right away. Asho fought the urge to glance at him. Finally he spoke. “I cannot help you.”

Asho started. He’d expected to hear something about ‘true knights’ or the like. “What?” Pain cut into his chest. “So, you agree. I’m beyond hope.”

“No, I don’t agree.” Wyland sat with a sigh on a rock. “Quite the opposite. But I can’t help you until you’re willing to listen.”

“But I am listening. Right now. Go ahead. Try me.”

“No,” said Wyland, pulling off a boot. He shook it, and a pebble fell out. “You’re not listening. There’s no room in your head for my advice.”

Asho bit back on his frustration and crouched in front of the older knight. “There is. I swear there is.”

Wyland pulled off his other boot and laid his foot over his knee. There was a hole in his sock. He began to massage his foot. “Your head is so filled with bitterness and anger that you won’t listen. Do you remember when we first spoke? You told me that all you needed was your sword. I tried to caution you, but you couldn’t listen.”

Asho opened his mouth to retort, but he had nothing to say. He closed it. Was Wyland right? He hung his head. “Maybe I can’t be a true knight, then. Maybe my background prevents me from being one.”

“All evil and lazy men have excuses for their actions, and many claim hard circumstances. The mark of a real knight is his disdain for excuses. He takes full responsibility for his actions. He knows that the only thing he can control is himself, so he does exactly that.”

Asho wanted to protest. It was too much to ask. Throughout his whole life, his outrage and fury had given him strength, fueled his determination. Was he supposed to simply forget it all? Put Shaya behind him?

The wind tugged at Ser Wyland’s cloak. The knight pulled on a boot, then the other. “You’ve had a hard life, Asho. I don’t deny it. Harder than most. But don’t let that pain drag you down. Embrace it. Be grateful for it.”

“Grateful?” Asho couldn’t believe it. “For a lifetime of pain and loss and abuse?”

“Yes. Tell me: why do we Ennoians fight when violence is forbidden by the Ascendant?”

“Each cycle has its role.” Asho fought down his irritation. “Ennoians are warriors.”

“Yes, but it is clearly stated that violence is forbidden. Hence the use of the kragh. But still, how do we Ennoians hope to Ascend to Nous when we flout so grave a law?”

Asho scowled. “It’s sanctioned. It’s your role.”

“Not quite.” Ser Wyland smiled grimly. “Our dedication to war is justified by the suffering it brings us. That suffering cleanses us of the sin of murder. The more we suffer, the greater our sacrifice. Hard campaigns. Painful wounds. Violent death. We honor the Ascendant through might in arms, defeating his opponents, and by suffering for him before we die. The more we suffer, the greater our reward.”

Asho nodded reluctantly. “All right. So?”

“You, Bythian, are blessed. As unnatural as it is, your ascension to knighthood affords you the greatest chance to suffer.” Ser Wyland grinned and placed both hands on his knees. “Your suffering elevates you. If you are to serve Lady Kyferin truly, you will disdain excuses. You will ignore insults. You will let nobody drag you down. You will fight with all your heart, and when your death comes, as it surely will, you will die at peace with your life and your deeds, knowing that you have brought more light into the world than dark, that your suffering had purpose, and that you have served the Ascendant with all your soul.”