The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2) (9 page)

Nakrok turned from examining Tharok's kragh and really looked at the Red River warlord for the first time. "Of course," he said. "Which is why I'm here. Still, of all the clans, of all the chieftains, why did you have the nerve to pick mine?"

"The Crokuk are famous for being good fighters," said Tharok, and as Nakrok went to bow his head in acknowledgement, he continued, "For lowland kragh, that is. Still, your numbers should make up for your lack of strength."

Nakrok gave him a wolfish grin. "And I shall be happy to direct your brutes when it comes to strategy. You will be amazed, highlander, to learn that there is more to battle than screaming and running forward, throwing your feces at the enemy."

Tharok laughed and stepped forward to grasp Nakrok's arm in a warrior's clasp. "At last I will be able to tell Toad that he can finally rest. Your tongue will keep us amused, if nothing else."

Nakrok gripped his forearm. "Unlike some, we Crokuk don't lick the asses of those we wish to impress."

Tharok paused, still gripping the smaller kragh's arm, and forced his smile to remain genial. "No, you skip the foreplay and go right to getting shafted. Hence your presence here this morning, no?"

Nakrok's grin grew sharp, almost feral, and Tharok released his arm and looked at his gathered kragh. "Warriors of the Crokuk, welcome! The Red River Tribe is glad to have you with us in the battles to come. It will be good to have the strength and ferocity of the kragh who created the Orlokor Empire by our side."

The hundreds of kragh stared at him impassively. Nakrok watching him with slitted eyes.

"What's the matter, Nakrok?" asked Tharok. "Regretting obeying Porloc's orders?"

Nakrok spat on the ground. "No. Enough talking. The sooner we march on the Tragon, the sooner this farce will be over."

He returned to his mount, and Tharok turned and caught Barok's eye. The sword master shook his head in disapproval and walked away.

It took but minutes for the preparations to be completed, and soon the Red River were ready to march. The entire time, Nakrok sat on his horse, watching, arms crossed and resting on the pommel of his saddle.

"Was that wise?" asked Maur, stopping where Tharok was tightening the rawhide straps of his pack.

"Antagonizing Nakrok? Yes."

Maur raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Until this moment, they thought us little more than brutish beasts. Now they resent us, and perhaps in time will learn to hate. Hate, properly manipulated, can turn into grudging respect. Then we will crush their leadership, and then they will join us."

"You aim to take control of the Crokuk?"

"Maur," said Tharok. He rose and heaved the pack onto his shoulder, shifting its weight about so that its load rested on his hips. "You have no idea how far I aim. We've yet to see if my reach exceeds my grasp, but we'll speak of that tonight at the war council."

"War council? What war council?"

Tharok grinned at her. "You didn't get the message?"

Maur's brow darkened. "Play with me at your own peril, warlord."

Tharok adjusted a strap. "Don't worry; nobody yet knows. I'm going to summon it at the last minute so as to not give anyone time to prepare."

Maur shook her head slowly. "You are mad."

"That," said Tharok, moving past her, "is quite possible. Time will tell."

And with a final laugh, he marched on, through the waiting ranks of Red River to the road. There he turned to Nakrok and with a raised arm indicated that the great march north had begun.

Nok, with Shaya still in tow, brought him his mountain goat. The human was wrapped in a massive goat fur, roughly cut to suit her frame, a belt cinching it tight about her narrow waist. Her pale hair was bound back in a tight braid, and her nervousness made her eyes appear overlarge.

"Chief," said Nok, one hand on the goat's saddle, "do you intend to ride your beast?"

"No," said Tharok. He felt the urge to exert himself, to stretch his legs. "Why?"

"Shaya is still weak. She should ride for the first few days till she regains her strength."

Tharok studied the massive kragh who had become his clan mate. He stared Nok in the eyes until the other looked away into the middle distance. "Very thoughtful of you. Fine. Keep her on the goat." He looked to Shaya. "I have made you part of my clan, human. Do you know what that means?"

Shaya shook her head.

"It means you are as close to me as kin. If anybody insults you, they insult me. For as long as you stay with my tribe. Am I clear?"

Shaya's confusion was almost amusing. "Yes," she whispered. "Thank you."

Tharok grunted. Something about her weakness angered him. "We will talk more when we camp tonight. I have many questions about you humans. Until then, don't fall off the goat."

That said, he strode on, and as one the Red River fell in behind him.

Tharok set a grueling pace up the Chasm Walk. The Red River managed to handle it without much difficulty, but the Crokuk were hard-pressed to keep up, their smaller legs forced into occasional bursts of jogging up the shallow gradient. All morning they ascended, until they passed the great Orlokor wall that ringed the mouth of the Walk proper. There they filed through the massive gates as the entire garrison turned out to watch, the two hundred Red River followed by the five hundred Crokuk, an army the likes of which had not entered the mountains in over a decade. Overhead, turkey vultures circled, wings frozen and outstretched in the sky, weaving eldritch patterns against the Sky Lord's realm.

On and up and up and on they went, into the colder climes. Tharok refused to break for lunch, and as the Walk grew steeper he increased the pace, forging ever ahead, lowering his head so as to balance the great pack on his back. It had been some time since he had pushed himself hard, and he enjoyed the tightness in his chest, the burn in his thighs. His breath came deep and steady, and on he strode, eating up the miles, passing the checkpoints without pausing to answer the calls of the sentries, allowing the Crokuk to deal with the formalities.

The sun dipped behind the higher peaks, and soon they were walking through cold blue shadow, the higher slopes still catching the sunlight and glowing roseate and rust-colored. They went higher yet, and before them lay the ice-clad peaks, gleaming and glittering like the world's most marvelous diamonds. The tree-covered slopes grew shadowed and still, and the walls of the valley grew ever closer until once more they were traveling along the base of the chasm, cliffs ascending steeply on both sides and covered in heavy brush.

Finally, as the shadows began to darken from blue to black, Tharok stopped, turned, and raised his fist. The Red River were strung out before him in a long line, bunched in the center with the mountain goats, but beyond them there was no sight of the Crokuk. Tharok grunted, pleased. The lowlanders would probably catch up within half an hour if they hadn't swallowed their pride and stopped to make their own camp. There was plenty of time to prepare.

His tribe swelled before him until they were all gathered, their great tusked faces staring at him, weary but still alive enough to be curious.

"We make camp, here where the valley widens behind that line of trees," he told them. "Move fast. I want huts up and fires lit before the first lowlander rounds that bend. Move, move, move!"

The Red River kragh stared at each other and then strode off the path, unslinging packs and reaching for the knots that bound loads to the goats' backs. Having lived their whole lives on the move, it took them little time to establish their sites, to pitch their huts, to begin gathering wood and setting it to burn in small piles.

Tharok remained within the tree line, arms crossed, staring down the Chasm Walk. It was crucial that Nakrok not have decided to stop and make his own camp. It was crucial that the Crokuk still follow, that they have enough loyalty to Porloc and pride as lowland kragh to struggle after the Red River, bitter and angry and resentful.

Tharok was beginning to fear the worst when Nakrok's horse finally rounded the curve, the clop of its hooves echoing off the stone cliffs moments before it emerged from the gloom. Tharok resisted the urge to grunt loudly, so profound and deep was his satisfaction. The Crokuk warlord pulled back on his reins when he saw the campfires, and Tharok turned to examine the sight that greeted the lowlander: huts were assembled, and already the Red River were hunkered about their fires, seeming at ease, making it impossible to gauge how long they had been at camp. Tharok nodded.
Perfect
.

Behind the Crokuk warlord came his kragh. They were sore of foot, winded, their heads hanging, their weapons dragging. Gone was their pride and disdain. Now their hundreds arrived in dribs and drabs to stop behind their warlord, and Tharok could see his camp fires burning in their eyes as they stared in anger and resentment at the highlanders. Anger, resentment, fatigue, pain, all that and more, but no longer disdain. No longer that distant look of cold superiority.
Good
.

Tharok headed back to his hut, noting that the Red River had filled the center of the clearing. Nakrok would have to encircle their camp, another subtle symbol of Tharok's superiority. The central fire in any kragh camp went to the most powerful, and the Crokuk could not help but notice that the Red River formed their camp's core.

Time now to eat, to speak to his kragh. The war council tonight would be crucial for their long-term success. It was time to test how wise Nakrok was... or how bullheaded.

An hour later, the dark heavens were smeared with stars, the brilliant constellations so thick and luminous after the reek and glow of Gold that it did Tharok good to simply stand, hand on hips, and gaze up at the heavens.

Nok approached, a moving mound almost as large as a stone troll. "The kragh are prepared. Barok has drilled them."

"Good. They must be ready to act the moment I give the signal, and act fast. Now, go to the Crokuk. Tell Nakrok that we gather to discuss the war with the Tragon, and his presence is requested."

Nok bowed his head and turned to go. Tharok hesitated, almost held his tongue, then spoke. "How did the human, Shaya, fare today?"

The massive kragh shrugged. "It's hard to tell. They're so delicate, humans. You think they're just tired, and then they fall over and can't get back up. I think she is alright. Her body may be weak, but she possesses a strong will. She didn't fall once. She sleeps."

Tharok nodded slowly. "You have much experience with humans." Nok remained silent, so Tharok said, "We'll speak more of this later. Go now."

Tharok walked back to the Red River's central fire, which was burning low, illuminating the faces of the four kragh he had asked to be present. Barok, the sword master. Maur, the representative of the wise women. A wiry kragh named Rabo, famed for tracking a wolf pack for five days across the mountains in his youth and killing them one by one for devouring his wife. An old and greatly respected warrior by the name of Kharsh who had fought alongside Tharok's father.

"The Crokuk come," he said, stepping into the light.

Kharsh was in the midst of saying something in heated tones to Barok. Maur was standing to one side, shaking her head, and Rabo was sitting on a log, his face neutral.

Tharok said, "Do you have anything to say to me, Kharsh?"

The old kragh, his face lined and seamed by age, thick scars across his face making a webbing of pale flesh, turned and stared at Tharok. His left eye was milky white, ruined by the fire that had been used by the Hrakar to torture him when he had fallen into their hands over eleven years ago.

"You are not our warlord," he said, facing Tharok full-on. "We know nothing of your plans. You don't trust us. You tell us nothing of what we are doing. For a week now we have followed you blindly, down into the Orlokor lands and now back up here to fight the Tragon. We meet to discuss with the Crokuk, but know less than they do. A warlord shares his plans. You lead us as if we were children, not trusting us with anything."

Tharok turned his gaze to Barok, who held it steadily, and then looked to Rabo, who gave a small shrug, showing that he didn't disagree with Kharsh. Maur continued to gaze out into the night.

"Understood, Kharsh," Tharok replied. "I meant no disrespect. Tonight I shall speak my mind plainly, and you will know everything that I intend."

Kharsh's scowl pulled at the stiff scar tissue on his face. "We shall see."

They all turned at the sound of approaching kragh, and soon Nok emerged from the gloom with five lowlanders behind him: Nakrok and his chieftains.

"Welcome, kragh of the Crokuk. We talk of war," said Tharok, moving forward to stand before the other warlord.

"War?" said Nakrok. "This is a farce. What is there to discuss? We find the Tragon where they hide and kill them. This meeting is a waste of time."

Tharok presented his back to the lowlander and moved away, looking at the ground in thought. The Crokuk remained grouped at the edge of the fire's light, refusing to validate the meeting by moving forward to join them.

"Find them and kill them," said Tharok. "I am young. I've not seen much war. Remind me how we do that, exactly."

Nakrok hissed. "I'll not play your games. We return to our camp."