Chapter 5

Mourning-stone, the Tamire

The Mourning-stone was a blade of red rock, resembling the tip of a lance, more than two hundred feet from base to jagged tip. It stood tall at the head of the Vale of Princes, a steep-walled gorge that cut through the foothills of the Ilquar mountains, where oaks and ferns grew around a narrow, clay-banked stream—a sacred site to the Uigan and a place feared by all the other peoples of the Tamire.

Word of Krogan's death had gone out across the plains soon after Chovuk and Hult brought him back to Undermouth, borne by young riders bearing dead crows on long staffs—the traditional sign that Uigan had lost their lord. It spread quickly, as tidings often did on the Tamire, and the tribes had begun to gather in the Stone's shadow a few days after. They had massed in the valley over the course of a fortnight, until the last riders from the land's farthest reaches straggled in, caked with dust, their horses frothing and half-blown from the ride. Ninety-three Tegins had come, the lords of all the clans that had survived the Godless Night. They had spent days hunting and telling boastful tales about the old Boyla's battles in Krogan's honor. At night they drank kumiss and sang songs or sparred with blunted shuks until they passed out.

When they heard the Kazar had killed Krogan, they spat in the dirt and swore vengeance upon their ancient foes. None of them questioned Chovuk's word. Hult said nothing—after all, hadn't the beer-drinking dogs of the east meant to slay the Boyla? Did they not deserve slaughter for that, even if they had failed?

At last, the day of hanging came. Krogan was given over to the Yemuna, the Ghost-Widows, a band of old women who had remained unmarried and virginal all their lives. Clanless, they dwelt always near the Mourning-stone, keeping watch over it. The Ghost-Widows prepared Krogan's corpse for the funeral, carrying out secret rites that no man could see to preserve his flesh and make safe his passage into the after-world. This was the way among the Uigan—only the elderly and husbandless could handle the dead—with the Boylas receiving the care of the Yemuna. Now, their mysteries done, the stooped, yellowrobed crones brought his body down from their caves beneath the Stone, bearing him on a litter to sit, as though alive, before the gathered Tegins. The killing arrow was gone from his eye, and his face, though pale and sunken, showed no signs of rot. Strips of cloth, dyed with saffron, covered his wounds.

"The Boyla is dead," said Groaning Wind, the eldest of the Widows. The other women wore shrouds that obscured their faces, but hers was bare, skin and hair dusted with powdered bone to whiten them. She had to be ninety winters old, at least, but her power was unmistakable. The lords of the plains feared to look directly at her. "For fifty-three summers he ruled our people, in war and in peace. Because of him, we survived the troubles of the Dread Winter, the raids of the elves and ogres, the terror of the Second Destruction. He saw us through the Night, and lived to sing beneath the red moon once more. He was a great prince."

"A great prince," the Tegins murmured, hard men all, their voices soft and low.

"But even the summer sun must set, and the joyful song must have its ending," Groaning Wind went on. "The Boyla is dead."

"Let the Kazar he next!" shouted one of the younger lords. A rumble of agreement rose among the gathering, but Groaning Wind flashed them a fierce look.

"Still your cries for blood!" the Widow shouted. "His corpse is not yet hung, and already you speak of slaughter!"

Obediently, the men fell silent. At a sign from Groaning Wind, another of the old women raised a mallet and struck a large, bronze gong. Its shuddering sound filled the valley as two more Yemuna came forward and tied long, jute ropes to Krogan's armor. Still others hauled on the other ends of the ropes, and the Boyla rose from his litter, then from the ground. Pulleys hoisted him higher and higher up the face of the Mourning-stone, up to a ledge where two more Widows awaited. They had driven spikes into the rock face, and now they used bowstrings to lash Krogan to the rock. This was how the Uigan honored their dead lords. Not by burying them in earth or rock, or giving them to fire, as savages like the Kazar did, but by hanging them from the Stone. Above Krogan, scores of bodies dangled—Boylas past, from his predecessor Yakinf, his mummified face leathery but still recognizable to the eldest Tegins, to the bodies of men who had ruled the Tamire in ages scarcely remembered, now nothing but bones and hair, rattling in the wind. It was said, though only by the shamans and the mad, that should the Uigan ever need their aid, the bodies of the old Boylas would return to life and ride to fight for their people. For now, though, they twisted and swung upon the stone.

Now Krogan was one of them. The Widows left him, and Groaning Wind turned to stare up at the slain prince, dangling fifty feet above the ground, one of more than a hundred who had ruled the plains since the first Uigan mounted horses in the youth of the world. The rest of the riders followed her lead, all staring at the man who had, only a few weeks ago, been their prince.

"Acha, lord of the grasslands, master of many herds," she intoned, speaking the ritual farewell. "Jijin see you to your rest among your fathers in the fields beyond. The gods tell your tale now."

"Acha, Krogan," spoke the Tegins.

When it was done, the gong sounded again, and the lords stood silent for an hour beneath Krogan's sightless face. Then, without another word, they left the Stone and returned to their camps, their kumiss, and their women. They would rest during the day—for that night, they had a solemn task before them. By sunrise the next day, a new Boyla would rule the Tamire.

The drumming began down below in the valley. Hult caught his breath, then looked over his shoulder at the closed flap of Chovuk's yurt. The Tegin had been in there some time since Krogan Boyla's funeral. That had been in the morning. Now the sun was setting, the clouds shining like plundered gold as the steppes grew dim. Yet despite the growing shadows, no light shone within the chieftain's tent. It wasn't Hult's place to wonder about this, but he couldn't help it. Squatting in his customary place, just outside the yurt, his shuk lying naked across his knees, he found himself fretting about Chovuk. With the thunder and chanting rising below, he worried. Was his lord well? Did he know the hour?

He looked this way and that across the camp. The White Sky People had come en masse to the Mourning-stone, as befitted the tribe the Boyla had been with when he died. There was no longer anyone there, though—only a lone camp dog nosing through the ashes of a fire. They were all down in the valley with the riders the other tribes had sent—waiting. The rite would not, could not start without Chovuk. Legs aching, Hult rose and walked back to the yurt.

He saw at once he had been wrong to think it was dark inside. As he grew closer, he could see a glimmer from beneath the flap. It was not the familiar, warm light of tallow-lamps, but a strange sheen of silvery blue. Magic, he thought with a shiver. The Uigan had had sorcerers in the old days before the Godless Night, but they had never fully trusted them. When the moons vanished, taking the magic with them, the riders had stoned the powerless wizards. As the moons were back, there was talk that magic had returned as well—but Chovuk? The Tegin was no mage, Hult was certain.

Hult was still staring when the blue light vanished, as quickly as snuffing a candle. He reacted at once, scrambling back to his place. If Chovuk suspected he had been spying, he would beat Hult with a cudgel for it. A tenach did not intrude on his lord unless something was urgent. Hult had just squatted back down when he heard the rustle of the flap being thrown back.

"Master," he declared, standing. He kept his eyes downcast. "The ritual has begun."

"I hear it," replied Chovuk. He was smiling. "We are late, but that is good. Let the other chiefs look for my coming."

Hult looked up at his master and fought to keep his eyes from widening. There was a strange glint in Chovuk's eyes, the gleam a man got when he had a killing fever. Sweat beaded the Tegin's brow. Hult instinctively knew this was because of the magic he'd felt—but why? And where had the light gone? He could not ask these questions. It was against custom, a sign of disrespect.

Another: why did you kill the Boyla?

"Tenach? Does something trouble you?"

Hult started, realizing he'd been staring at the tent. "N-no, Master," he murmured. "We should go."

"You must trust me," Chovuk said, smiling again. "All will be well."

"I trust you always, Master."

The Tegin clapped his arm. "Good," he said, walking toward the sound of the drums. "Let us go down to them, then. The time of choosing has come."

"I don't understand," Hult said, in that horrible, still moment after Chovuk shot the Boyla. He couldn't take his eyes off the body of Krogan, the man's mouth wide with shock, his remaining eye a ruin, pierced by the Kazar arrow. "He would have lived. He needed no pity-slaying."

Chovuk stood still, his face inscrutable as he slowly lowered the bow. He did not answer.

"Tegin?"

The chieftain turned and looked at Hult without recognition. After a moment he blinked and came back to himself, like a shaman of Jijin roused from a sweat-dream. He smiled.

"You must trust me, Tenach" he said. "The world has changed, but Krogan would not. This needed doing, and I was not the only Tegin to think so. Most of us did, though no other would dare act upon it."

Hult stared at his master for a long moment, then frowned and looked back at the Boyla.

"You will not speak of this," Chovuk pressed. "Krogan died in the ambush, with his men. The Kazar dogs killed him. There will be a mourning time, then we will hang his body and choose a new Boyla. None can know."

Hult took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I trust you, Master. May I lose my tongue if I lie."

Chovuk studied him, then smiled. "Good. Now go back and find the others. Tell them Krogan Boyla is dead."

When Hult and Chovuk came down into the valley, a great fire was burning at the foot of the Mourning-stone. Around it, on stools of fine wood and horn, sat the Tegins. They were all different, from men who had reached the ancient age of seventy summers to youths who had only just come of age. Some were hugely muscled, others thin and wiry, and a few fat and shining with sweat. Many bore prominent scars, or were missing fingers, hands, even entire arms. All wore tattoos on their cheeks, denoting their standing among the Uigan. Behind each stood poles bearing their tribal standards—a silken flag, a bear's skull, a black horsetail farther along. Squatting at each lord's right hand was his tenach, saber at the ready to defend his master should trouble strike.

Chovuk was indeed the last to arrive. All eyes watched as he strode into the circle of firelight, Hult carrying stool and standard behind him. The Tegins fell silent as Chovuk sat in the place of honor, closest to the Stone. The White Sky were one of four tribes that could lay claim to the rank of Boyla, for Chovuk could trace his ancestry back to Ajal, the first man to rule all the Uigan. The other three royal lords, Sugai of Raven Eye, Torug of Ten Arrows, and Hoch of Wolf Moon—Krogan's eldest living son—watched with dark eyes as he took his place by the fire.

"Chovuk Tegin," growled Torug, a long-bearded mountain of a man who wore the pelt of a griffin as a cloak over his mail-coat. "We are honored that you finally join us."

Some of the Tegins laughed at that, but most kept quiet. Chovuk and Torug held no love for each other: this was well known. Squatting at his master's side, Hult watched the towering lord's tenach, a pale-skinned mute known only as Fox. The warrior stared back, his black eyes full of disdain.

"I am just as pleased," Chovuk replied. "To see you sober is a rare pleasure, Torug Tegin."

There was more laughter, louder this time. Torug's lip curled. In the past, Tegin-circles had sometimes degenerated from councils into brawls that left dozens of great lords dead. Hult wondered if this might be one of those meetings. He tightened his grip on his shuk. If Fox took so much as a step toward Chovuk, he would put the blade through the man's throat.

"Stop your yapping, you pups," snapped Sugai, at sixty the eldest of the four royal Tegins. His braid and beard were the color of snow, as Krogan's had been. "We have business here this night, and it is not to gripe at one another."

"Show respect," Hoch added. He was only fifteen, with few hairs on his chin. "My father is newly hung above us."

"And how lucky for Chovuk that he found Krogan's body!" leered Torug. "How fortunate it gives him the right of first claim, by our laws."

Chovuk's face could have been carved from stone. "Speak straight, Torug—if you can. What is it you imply?"

Hult bit the inside of his cheek, forced himself to remain calm. Betray nothing, he told himself. Show no sign you know the truth. He kept his eyes on Fox, who glowered back.

"I imply nothing," Torug replied, grinning to show several missing teeth. "You are merely a lucky man."

Growling, Chovuk leaned forward. Torug met his gaze, a wolfs smile tightening his mouth. Fox licked his lips.

"I said enough!" thundered Sugai, rising from his stool. He drew his sword. "Whoever makes the next taunt, I answer him with steel."

The lesser lords murmured at this. Sugai was well respected among the Tegins, though for his wisdom, not his prowess at arms. Once he had been a fine warrior, but all knew age had stiffened his joints. That he offered to keep the peace here showed how important peace was. Torug and Chovuk didn't seem to hear him, however. They continued to glare at each other for a long while before, finally, Chovuk broke the contest with a shrug, as if the other man wasn't worth the bother. He looked to Sugai, who still held his shuk ready.

"You will judge this, then?" he asked. "You make no claim to rule?"

"I do not," said Sugai. "I am old and soon to die. Let a man with life ahead of him be Boyla."

"But not so young a man as I," said Hoch. "I will rule my father's tribe, but not the Tamire. Not yet."

"Then it is between us," Torug said, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. "Or will you withdraw your claim, Chovuk?"

"I will not," Chovuk replied, standing and clapping a hand to his mailed chest. "I am the rightful Boyla. I lay first claim."

Noise erupted within the valley. The lesser Tegins shouted encouragement for Chovuk. Torug's face darkened, for it was clear Chovuk had most of their support. Hult was not surprised. Torug was a brute, and his tribe a quarrelsome one, killers and horse thieves. There hadn't been a Boyla from Ten Arrows since before the First Destruction.

Nonetheless, Torug rose from his stool and spoke vehemently. "And I challenge," he declared. "Let a warrior lead our people and bring death to the dogs who slew Krogan!"

A chorus of lusty shouts answered him—fewer than had yelled for Chovuk, but more than Hult had expected. By playing on the Tegins' yearning for blood, he had won some support away from his rival.

Chovuk was undeterred. "Of course you would bring death to the Kazar," he said, gesturing at the faces around the fire. "Who here would not? But you have no vision beyond, Torug. Some men behold a thunderstorm and see the power of the gods. You would call it pretty lights in the sky."

Laughter at this, and a warning look from Sugai. Torug's face twisted in mute fury; it could have belonged to one of the prince-corpses swinging from the Mourning-stone.

"And what is your vision, Chovuk?" he growled.

"War. Not just raiding, but war. Yes, let the Kazar bleed for their wrongs, but we have other foes as well. And none greater than those who cling to our southern lands."

The Tegins murmured, raising their eyebrows as they looked at one another. Hult glanced up at his lord, startled. Fox flexed his arms, his eyes bare slits. All knew what Chovuk meant, the minotaurs of the Imperial League, once separated from the Tamire by the waters of the Tiderun. Nearly ten generations ago, they had built their first colonies on the Run's northern shore, in lands the Uigan had held for thousands of years. The bull-men had not negotiated with the riders, but had simply pushed them out—with sword and spear when necessary. There had been much strife in those days, but in the end the League's legions had proven too strong to overcome, so the Uigan had left.

But they had never forgotten.

"What say you, Chovuk Tegin?" asked Sugai. "Do you speak of the bull-men? Would you challenge the League?"

"I would do more," Chovuk answered. "I would make open war on them and drive them from their cities of stone, back across the Tiderun! Send them out of our lands forever!"

Some of the Tegins roared and stomped their feet, but most of the lords did not know how to react, and Hult couldn't blame them. Part of him reveled at the thought of making war on the League, for the bull-men's colonies pushed farther into the Uigan lands every year, particularly now that the Godless Night was over. But the bull-men were strong, and their warriors had won every battle they had fought against the folk of the Tamire. The Uigan raided their caravan lines sometimes, but they hadn't openly challenged the League in more than two centuries.

"A fine dream," Torug scoffed, folding his arms across his chest. "But greater men than you have chased this phantom and died for it! You would lead our people to a fruitless doom!"

Chovuk spat into the fire. "Long have I known you a fool, Torug, but not before today would I have called you coward."

Sugai, who had raised his hand to intervene again, now stepped back, shaking his head. It had gone too far, even for his wisdom to mend. When one Tegin called another coward, only one thing could follow. Immediately Torug yanked an iron hammer from his belt and brandished it at Chovuk. Flecks of spit flew from his lips as he spoke.

"Coward, is it?" he roared. "You shall regret that—but not for long!"

Fox moved like a striking serpent, leaping to his feet and pointing his blade at Hult. Hult rose as well, returning the gesture. The two tenachai moved to stand protectively before their lords, even as Chovuk slid his shuk from its scabbard. Sugai, Hoch, and the other nearby Tegins moved away, clearing a ring of bare earth by the fire. Now there would be a blood-duel. Four men would fight, lords and protectors together. At least two would not leave the Vale of Princes alive.

"Come on, then," said Chovuk. "You will like the taste of my steel."

For a long moment no one moved. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the creak of the Boylas' corpses, swaying above. Hult studied Fox, guessing how the attack would come. It was up to a tenach to make the first move. Most duels ended in a few breaths, and more often than not, it was the attacker who made the first mistake. Besides, Fox was known to be impatient, impulsive.

And now, he attacked. He was horribly fast, his blade almost disappearing with the speed of its arc. Hult leaned back, felt the saber's tip blow by his face, then spun aside, bringing his own shuk about and thrusting for his opponent's bowels. Fox twisted, avoiding the blow, but the edge still scored his side, cutting through his leather vest to leave a bloody gash in his skin. With bared teeth, he reversed his swing, jerking his sword hilt-first toward Hult's jaw. It struck home, and Hult reeled back, tasting blood and probing a loose tooth with the tip of his swelling tongue.

Fox parried the next blow, then shoved Hult back, almost making him stumble. Hult blocked a backhand slash at his knees, then turned aside a following stab.

Torug was laughing, cheering on his tenach. Fox sneered, sensing the kill. Steel rang against steel, again and again, as Hult tired.

Just then, a knot in a huge log on the fire burst, sending up a shower of cinders with a loud bang. Hult blinked, surprised by the noise—but Fox did worse. He flinched, his eyes flicking toward the blaze—then widening as he realized his mistake.

Hult leaped, feinting for Fox's side, then spinning around him and flicking his shuk at the back of the man's knee. The blade bit deep, cutting through flesh and tendon, and Fox stumbled. The tip of his saber drove into the ground as he tried to steady himself, and the look of shock on his face gave way to resignation—then burst into agony as Hult's sword slid between his ribs. With a gasp, Fox collapsed and lay wheezing, sliding quickly toward death.

Hardly believing his luck, Hult jerked his shuk free—then suddenly he was on the ground, stars exploding in his head amid the clanging of enormous bells. Blood washed down the side of his face, and the world swam around him, blackness scrabbling at the edges.

At first, he didn't understand what had happened. But then he saw Torug, standing over him with his warhammer, and he knew. He'd devoted all his thought to Fox, forgetting that Fox was only a tenach. It was a wonder Torug hadn't killed him outright, hadn't smashed his brains into the dirt. Now all he could do was lie stunned as the Tegin raised his hammer.

A strange thing happened next. He heard Chovuk speaking, but the words were not those of the Uigan tongue. Indeed, they were something he had never heard in his life: strange, skittering sounds he could never have mimicked, no matter how hard he tried. Hult could almost grasp their meaning, but the words eluded him, like heat-shimmer over the plains in summertime. He felt a surge around him, making him think of the air before a thunderstorm—and then Torug fell back, his eyes wide with horror. The Tegin turned, tried to run… .

With a bloodthirsty roar, a huge, striped form struck Torug from behind. Through the haze of his dimming vision, Hult saw long, ripping claws and even longer teeth like sword-blades. Steppe-tiger, he thought, watching it slam Torug to the ground. The hammer went flying.

But that made no sense. There hadn't been a steppe-tiger in that part of the Tamire for a thousand years. The Uigan had hunted the beasts out, making the land safe for horse and man.

Torug flailed, trying to get up, but his legs wouldn't obey. His back was broken. He could only fumble at his belt for a knife as the tiger gazed down on him with piercing black eyes. It held a massive paw above Torug's stomach, then, almost gently, drove a single claw in. A scream of pain burst from the Tegin's mouth, followed by blood.

The tiger did a strange thing, then—something it should not have been capable of doing. Looking down on its dying prey, it smiled, the lips curling in a grin of cruel glee. A look completely alien on the face of an animal. It even seemed to laugh, massive shoulders heaving up and down. Torug gurgled, helpless, his eyes pits of stark terror. Jaws open wide, the tiger stooped over him…

… and the world swam away from Hult at last. The last things he heard, before all went black, were Torug's dying shriek, and the crunch of teeth through bone.

Hult lay beneath a heap of blankets in the dark warmth of a yurt. Chovuk's yurt. His head hummed like it was full of bees, and when he tried to sit up they all stung at once. Moaning, he sank back down, his vision blurring behind tears of pain.

"Be still," said an old woman's voice. A dark shape bent over him. He saw brown robes: a healer. "You're lucky you didn't end up a smear on Torug's hammer last night."

Last night? Hult thought. What is the hour? He tried to ask her, but the words became a long, slurred mumble. It was dark in the yurt.

"I said be still!" the healer repeated, then looked back as the tent flap opened behind her. Bright daylight poured in. "My lord," she said. "He is just awake."

Another figure strode up beside her. Hult willed his vision to clear—and slowly, it did. Standing over him was Chovuk. He no longer wore his chieftain's leathers, but instead had on a coat of mail fashioned in the shape of dragon scales.

Chovuk Tegin was now Chovuk Boyla, prince of all the Uigan.

"Rest, tenach," he said. "You will mend, but you need a few days. That wretch almost killed you."

Hult sucked in a breath, made himself speak clearly. "T-tiger," he said. "Where… ?"

"Later," Chovuk said. "All will be clear, when you have rested. Don't worry, tenach. You did well."

He smiled, and Hult gasped in awe. He knew that grin. It had been the last thing Torug Tegin saw.