The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1) (58 page)

“How can I help you, mighty warlord?” The human spoke passable kragh, though his throat had difficulty with the harsher sounds.

Tharok lifted his gaze and stared past him at the weapons on display. There were fine metal blades as long as his arm. Axes, daggers, spears, all gleaming like weapons from a dream, like fish caught from the freshest stream.

“What’s to stop me from taking what I want?” Tharok placed both hands on the board and leaned forward, putting his weight on the wood so that it creaked.

The human stepped back and lifted an eyebrow. “Other than the laws of the marketplace?”

“I don’t know of any laws.”

“They’re simple. Porloc has given us right of trade. You break them, you offend Porloc.”

“Porloc isn’t here.”

“No, but Grax is.”

“Grax. Who’s that? A highland kragh?”

The human took a whistle from around his neck and gave it a sharp blow. Tharok could barely hear the sound, but that was of no matter. From around the back of the hut emerged a hulking figure who would have been easily twice Tharok’s height if it had been standing straight. Even hunched over as it was, it loomed massively. It was no highland kragh. It was wearing a carapace of blue stone embedded into the flesh all along the back of its arms, shoulder and back. Its skin was a pale blue, and its face was a nightmare. A massive nose nearly hung over its lips, its tiny eyes were piss yellow, and its bat ears stuck out nearly a foot on each side of its great head. It was dragging a hammer behind it so large that Tharok doubted he could lift it.

“This is Grax,” said the human with a quiet smile. “He helps keep things in line.”

“By the Sky Mother,” breathed Tharok. “That’s a stone troll.”

“Indeed,” said the human. “
My
stone troll. Now, are you going to give me trouble? If not, buy something or get lost.”

Tharok eyed Grax. It stared back at him without animosity or much interest. It was surreal to see it here, amongst these tents in a marketplace. Stone trolls were beyond rare, almost legendary, and terrifyingly dangerous. Even up on the peaks where he lived he’d not heard of anybody seeing one in decades. Some whispered that the stone trolls were gone altogether, faded into the dark like other monsters of yore. Stories spoke of their delight in shaman stone, but how they hungered even more powerfully for flesh and would waylay travelers by throwing great boulders at them as they tried to make their way over narrow passes.

Tharok almost decided to loosen his axe, almost decided to test how fast this Grax could move, the fire in his belly urging him on. But he held back. “No,” he said, and backed away slowly. Grax’s eyes followed him, and it pulled the hammer off the ground and hefted it with both long, ropey arms. Tharok nodded, once, twice, and then moved away altogether.

By the peaks, a stone troll. Under the control of a human. A marvel.

Tharok wandered, looking for the other market, unsure how to get there and not wanting to ask. For an hour he simply moved from stall to stall, pausing to marvel at a deep well, to consider fighting a handful of belligerent lowlander kragh, until he finally fetched up before the slave gallery.

Ah, yes, this was what he had been looking for. The hour was growing late, and the number of slaves on display was greatly diminished. There were three Tragon kragh, their foreheads branded, their faces broken and bruised. Who knew where they would end up. The human female was also there, swaying where she stood, so weak she could barely keep her chin up. At the back, a silent shadow, stood the highland kragh. Nobody had bought him. He was of prodigious size, larger even than Tharok, and his skin was nearly coal black. His heavy shoulders and deep barrel chest hinted at his strength, but he stared fixedly at the ground and made no move to assert himself.

Tharok raised his hand and beckoned the slave owner over. The Orlokor kragh came rushing over, eager to please.

“Why is this highland kragh enslaved?”

“I don’t know why. He was delivered to me a week ago by his tribe. He was of the Urlor, and as you can see, is in great health. He could do the work of five Orlokor.”

“Don’t tell me things I already know. Why has he not been purchased?”

“He’s not… he’s been problematic. A couple of offers were made, but he gave them trouble, so they were withdrawn. I’m going to sell him for a pittance to the humans if nobody else makes an offer.”

“How much.” Tharok phrased it not as a question but a flat statement.

“Him?” The slaver’s eyes gleamed. “For you? A bargain. No more than two gold.”

Tharok didn’t question or haggle. Instead, he took his pouch and simply handed it to the Orlokor. “Here. Put the balance toward freeing any other highland kragh that come through your hands. Now release him.”

The Orlokor stammered, opened the pouch, and quickly nodded. “Yes, yes, but I can’t just release him. He’d run away. Here, I’ll give you the key—”

Tharok grabbed the slaver by the throat and lifted him from the ground. “I said, release him.”

The smaller kragh gurgled in Tharok’s grip and waved frantically at his assistants, who rushed forward to remove the shackles from the great kragh, who had watched all this with a neutral gaze. The metal shackles fell heavily to the dirt and the kragh stepped forward, rubbing his wrists.

Tharok released the slaver and then, on a whim, pointed at the human woman. “Her as well. She comes with me.”

The human was so weak she could barely understand what was happening to her. “Am I to go free?” she asked as she was unbound, trying to focus on the kragh. “Xavier? Has he come for me?”

The highland slave sniffed deeply and stepped up to Tharok. “You bought me.”

“No,” said Tharok. He wasn’t used to having to look up at anybody. “I freed you. Your fate is your own now. Go your own way.”

The highland kragh frowned. “Your name, your tribe?” His voice was so deep it was akin to boulders shifting deep within the earth.

“Tharok, warlord of the Red River tribe. You?”

“My name and tribe are behind me now.”

“Then give yourself a new name and find yourself a new tribe. And don’t shame yourself by being enslaved again.” Tharok turned to consider the human woman. She was looking around in confusion, clearly overwhelmed and gripped by terror. Tharok grunted, reached out, and took her by the arm. “Come,” he said. He was already regretting his decision.

A sudden blow crashed into the back of his head with such power that it pitched him forward. The human woman screamed as his world exploded into bright white light and he crashed to the ground, face digging deep into the dirt.

A deep growl rumbled in his chest. He slowly pushed himself up to his knees, then his feet, and only then turned to stare at his assailant. The highlander slave was rubbing his knuckles pensively, watching him with hooded eyes. Tharok’s growl deepened, and he drew his axe. “It is time for blood.”

The highlander slave shrugged, his massive shoulders rolling. “You weren’t watching your back.”

“So? Is that an insult to your honor?”

“No. But it was easy to take you down. Where is your clan? You walk alone, making it easy for me, and so easy for anyone else too.”

Tharok paused, the dull beat of his bloodlust demanding that he move, that he attack. He forced himself to hold back. Perhaps the circlet really was rubbing off on him. “Come to your point.”

“I’ve nowhere to go. No name. No clan. No tribe. No honor.” The massive kragh eyed him carefully. “I think you have no clan. Like me. So I’ll watch your back.”

Tharok continued to growl just beneath his breath, but the other kragh’s words resonated. It was true; no highland kragh would walk such a place without his clan around him to watch his back. Despite his resolutions a week ago, he’d not built a clan of his own. There was Toad, there was Barok, but for the most part he’d stayed aloof, caught up in his thoughts. The urge to bury his axe deep in the other kragh’s chest dissipated, and he shook his head to clear the last of his rage and lowered his weapon.

“Come up with a name, then.” The sheer size and darkness of this kragh spoke of his having been a warlord in his own time, but he showed no desire to challenge Tharok. In time his skin would lighten and his mass would shrink, bringing him in line with his new station. Tharok would watch him carefully until that happened, however.

“Why did you buy the human?” The freed kragh stared at the gold-haired woman, who was hugging herself and staring at them both with fear.

“I don’t know.” He examined her. She was emaciated, small, weak, and fragile. It was a miracle that humans managed to live for so long. A mixture of curiosity, pity, and disdain tugged at him. “Perhaps I want to learn more about humans from one of them instead of from the tales kragh tell each other. Bring her and follow me.”

Still blinking away tears from the blow, his head still ringing, he turned and slipped the axe over his shoulder. It was time to get back to Porloc’s.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Ser Tiron guided his pony using his knees, letting it amble forward at its own pace. The animal had been loaned to him by Gunnvaldr’s son, who’d told him it was called Biter. A good name. It spoke of spirit. It had yet to have a go at him, however; perhaps some dull instinct told the pony that biting this particular knight would prove a dangerous move. The beast was a far cry from his old destrier, Night Fall, but still Tiron found himself growing fond of it. There was something about its implacable manner, the way it seemed to have no difficulty making out the trail despite the thick and tangled mane that fell across its eyes. Rugged—that was the word. Biter, Tiron had decided, was the kind of pony that would lower its head and march all the way to the Black Gate if it had to.

Luckily, that wasn’t in the cards. The road from Hrething down to the lower plain where the Talon beetled out over Lake Crescent was little more than a cart trail, two ruts carved deep into the rock with a hummock of long grass between them. The slope had at first been precipitous, and Tiron had leaned as far back as he’d been able, grasping the cantle with both hands behind his back to stop from sliding right over the pommel, but finally he’d given up and just walked alongside Biter. He could have sworn he’d seen a victorious gleam in its eye somewhere beneath its mane. Still, a few miles down, the path had begun to level out, the mountain slopes pulling back and turning into merely steep, verdant hills. Easier riding, and they’d made better time.

Not that Tiron was in a rush. There was something about this preceding time before his encounter with Kitan and his men that appealed to him. There was nobody to speak to but Biter, nobody to judge his thoughts and doubts. Since his confession to Iskra he’d felt all hollowed out, like the rind of a fruit from which all the flesh has been scraped. He’d spoken barely a dozen words this past week, and instead focused on his swordplay, training each morning for several hours and then spending the afternoons and sometimes the evenings hiking around the shores of Lake Mythgræfen, working up a sweat, pushing himself till his thighs and calves and lungs all burned.

In Kyferin’s dungeon, the isolation had been a way to cultivate his hatred; his solitude had been active, made bearable by hopes of revenge. Now he saw how true solitude could be its own goal. If he spent enough time away from people, he could stop thinking so many thoughts. The busyness in his head would subside. He’d felt it during his long hikes, long stretches of time when he stopped reflecting or remembering, and instead was simply aware of the trail, of the obstacles before his feet. Given enough time, he supposed, maybe his very sense of self could merge with the wilderness, till he was little more than another dangerous predator, living from sunrise to sunset, resting, eating, and spending hours gazing up at the sky or following the passage of the wind across the forest canopy on the lower slopes.

Biter stopped walking. Tiron blinked and looked down at him. “Move.” He got no response. He flicked the reins, then dug his heels into Biter’s incredibly rotund sides. The animal was wider than a feasting hall ale barrel. Still, the beast failed to respond. “Hey. Get a move on.”

Then he heard it: the subtle clink and tramp of soldiers on the move. Coldness crept through him like mist over a dawn lake. He slid a leg over Biter’s saddle and slid to the ground. He was wearing his hauberk over leather armor, but had left his plate behind. It fit his story better. He drew his sword and stepped out before the pony.