Chapter 8

Mount Xagal, the Ilquars

The mountain loomed high over the Tamire, tall and jagged, standing out behind the crumbling, dusty foothills. It stood in shadow, silhouetted against the afternoon sun, an ominous, dark monolith that already cast a long shadow, though midday was only two hours past. A few blood-needle trees, scraggly things with gnarled, thorny branches, clung to its lower slopes, among skirts of scree. Above, they gave way to banded, ruddy rock, which rose in great treacherous sheets, unassailable to any being not born with wings. Patches of snow, melting with the coming of spring, dotted the heights, breaking away here and there to slide off the mountain's side, where the wind shredded them into icy dust. And at the crown of the peak, where the lowest shreds of cloud scudded, were three spires of red rock, forming something that, from a distance, looked like a raptor's talons.

These talons gave the peak its name in the Uigan tongue: Xagal—the Claw. Around the Claw, smaller peaks spread away for miles in all directions, too short for both snow and for blocking out the sun just yet. Xagal was by far the highest of the Uesi Ilquar, the spine of mountains that split the northern plains in half. Few living Uigan had ever seen the Claw up close, and with good reason. It was the home of the Wretched Ones, the last of the goblins of Hosk. Once, the stunted, bestial creatures had thrived across the land, from the Ur'musk Valley in the west to the edge of the Ghostwood that shrouded the Ring Mountains. They were already ancient when the Uigan first came here, and even predated the Elf Clans of the north. Bit by bit, they had been whittled away, forced into the mountains by the other races, and put to the sword when they resisted. Now they dwelt in the deep caves beneath the Claw and elsewhere in the Ilquars. They were a fading people, and little seen. The Uigan avoided them, considered them cursed.

A small band of riders pulled up on a stone path, which had been a streambed at the start of the year's thawing and had been reduced to nothing but a runnel and stones. The path led straight into the Ilquars, past the first stunted crags, and all the way to Xagal and the goblinhome. Hult, sitting on Chovuk's right as always, flicked a glance down the line at the others. Hoch Tegin was present, the young man's teeth bared to ward against evil. Yamad, his tenach and the lone survivor of Krogan's party, sat next to him with a hand on the hilt of his shuk. Beside them were Sugai Tegin and his protector, a lanky warrior with crowfeathers woven into his braid and a two-handed arshuk blade slung across his back. The elder lord pursed his lips, glancing sidelong at Chovuk Boyla. Hult studied that gaze, missing nothing. The old man was wise, of that there was no doubt. The worrying thing was that he was clever, as well. Clever men were not to be trusted.

Look at Chovuk, Hult thought wryly, regarding his master—resplendent in the gilded scale armor of Uigan royalty. He is clever, and Krogan paid for it with his life.

Hult was riding to the heart of a monstrous land, led by a man who had won his crown by slaying his own predecessor. A man who could change his skin and become a steppe tiger, who could tear an ogre apart with his teeth.

"I do not like this place," said Hoch, glaring up at the mountain's needled crown. "It is evil."

Chovuk, sitting with hands folded atop his saddle horn, did not look back. "I did not think you knew fear, Tegin."

Lord Sugai smiled, faintly. Hoch saw this, and scowled. As youngest of the horde's high lords, he had often been the butt of jokes over the long ride across the steppes, from the Mourning-stone. "I am not afraid," he blustered. "But the reckless rider doesn't see the gully until he falls in."

"Do not call the Boyla reckless," snapped Sugai.

The air changed as the Tegins' humor gave way to scorn. Mocking one of their own was one thing; an insult against Chovuk was something else. One did not offend the Boyla and live. Hoch fell silent, flushing with shame.

"Forgive me, lord," he murmured.

Chovuk could have taken his head, and Sugai would not have objected—at least not here. Instead, Chovuk smiled and shook his head. "It is nothing. You are right, Hoch—this might seem a rash thing to do. But I have my reasons. We must find the Wretched Ones."

It had been an eventful month, full of shouting and thundering hoofs. From the Mourning-stone, the Uigan had followed Chovuk east, then south, gathering riders at every village they passed, sending messengers to the more far-flung clans to send horsemen of their own. The horse-folk, tempted by the twin prospects of slaughtering their Kazar enemies and raiding the minotaur cities on the coast, responded with wild enthusiasm. Within the span of a few weeks, the three hundred who had gathered at the Stone for Krogan's funeral swelled to nearly five thousand, with more streaming in across the grasslands every day. There hadn't been a comparable mass of riders since before the Godless Night. Maybe since before the First Destruction.

Then, three nights ago, Chovuk had left them.

Looking out upon his thronged warriors, he had summoned the high Tegins to him, and bidden them ride back west with him, into the dry hills. The bulk of the horde remained on the plains, where the game was plentiful and they could remain until their rulers returned. Gathering Hoch and Sugai—and each man's tenach—he had declared his desire to journey deep into the Uesi Ilquar.

Hoch and some of the other young Tegins had bridled at this, demanding an explanation. The Ilquars, after all, were home to awful monsters who ate the flesh of the men they killed. Why would the Boyla seek such a place?

Chovuk had not answered their questions, and Sugai—who had become Chovuk's chief advisor within the horde, just as he had been Krogan's—had browbeaten the other chiefs into submission. So, not knowing why, they had followed their Boyla into the uplands, all the way to Mount Xagal, where the Wretched Ones lurked. For five days they rode ever deeper into the hills, arrows nocked and watching the cliffs for signs of ambush, but they had not yet seen a single living thing.

They rode on, deeper into the mountain's shadow. Hult's heart hammered in his breast as the path began to climb the slope's shoulder. Every now and then he sensed something strange—some movement just out of sight, or an echo that sounded wrong—but wherever he looked there was nothing. He had never seen a goblin, but the elders said they could hide among the stones even better than a tiger in the long grasses. They were all around, and had been for days—likely since the Uigan first set foot on the highland paths.

"Why do they wait?" Hult had asked the previous night, when the party camped—the fourth restless night among the strange sounds and chill air of the Ilquars.

The Boyla, drinking from a horn of kumiss, had glanced away into the dark and shrugged, his expression unchanging. "Because they can. They could kill us any time they wish. If we show fear, if we turn back, they will fall on us like jackals. But we go on. That makes them curious, so they let us live. For now, anyway."

Hult had shivered to hear Chovuk speak so. But the Boyla was not afraid, and that boosted his own courage. Besides, he was tenach: if his master rode into the pits of the Abyss, he would follow. What else was there to do?

Ahead, they spied the glint of the sun on water: a narrow mountain lake, fed by streams that trickled down from cracks in the rocks above. Along its shores stood nine tall, wooden stakes. A body hung impaled on each. Three of the bodies were human, young Uigan men from the look of their clothing. Another may have been an elf, though it was little more than bones. The rest were stunted, ugly things, abominations Hult didn't recognize, and therefore took to be goblins. Most were old husks, withered by the dry mountain air, but a couple had been killed in the past several months. Crows hopped from one to the next, seeking tasty morsels. They had already taken the eyes and cheeks, and presently squabbled over noses and ears. Bones, some with scraps of hair and skin still clinging to them, littered the stony ground.

The Boyla raised a hand, and the party halted. They stared at the gruesome sight, the sacrifices, the rusty, dried blood that caked the bases of the wooden poles. Their lips curled with disgust. Hult watched Chovuk, half-expecting a command to fight, but his master looked calm, staring past the stakes toward the lake and the high, ruddy cliff beyond.

Chovuk threw his head back and howled like a wolf. The other Tegins looked at him in surprise as he repeated the call a second time, and a third. Then, throwing wide his arms, he shouted across the water.

"Akan tsckushu! People of the Mountain!" he cried. "I am Chovuk Boyla, lord of all the Uigan upon the Tamire. I come to pay honor to your king."

"Honor?" murmured Hoch. "To goblins?"

He fell silent after Sugai shot him a fierce look. Hult could tell from the old lord's eyes he was thinking the same thing, though.

For twenty breaths, nothing moved. Hult had to fight back the urge to draw his shuk. The other tenachai already gripped their blades, as did Hoch himself, but he would not bare his own saber until Chovuk bade him. The wind moaned through the valleys around Xagal, making ripples on the lake's dark water.

Finally, an answer came. A voice like a death-rattle called out, though they still could not see the one who spoke.

"We know you," the voice said, its accent and broken tongue making it barely understandable. "You not go mountain. Not friend, not see king."

Chovuk smiled. "I am your friend," he replied. "Here is the proof."

Slowly, he reached toward his belt. Hult held his breath, waiting for an arrow to appear in his master's breast, but the unseen goblins did not attack. Still curious, he thought as he watched the Boyla produce a leather pouch from his belt. Chovuk had carried the pouch since they came to the Ilquars, but had not spoken of it, nor shown anyone what it held. Untying the drawstring, he stepped forward and upended the pouch, spilling its contents on the ground.

Hult caught his breath when he saw what the pouch held. Out spilled silver rings, some fifty of them, each set with a large turquoise. The stone of death. Hoch's eyes widened at the sight of them.

"You know these," Chovuk shouted. "They are the jewels of Kazar warriors. Only men who have slain fifty enemies in battle may don these rings. More than a few of those fifty were likely your people. These rings were bought with the blood of your kin.

"Now is the time to avenge that blood. I offer you these rings, and the chance to fill them with Kazar fingers, if you will take me to your king."

A broad smile split Sugai Tegin's face. The others looked at the Boyla in wonder. Hult felt a surge of pride—what tenach served a master more cunning than his?

Again, no answer came for quite some time. Finally a low rumble shook the ground. Beyond the lake, at the end of a narrow path leading around its edge, a crack opened in the stone of Mount Xagal. Shadows lay thick within. Still there was no sign of the Wretched Ones.

"You come," rasped the unseen voice. "You, and one other. King waits. Bring rings, you give him."

Chovuk nodded, turning to the other Tegins. "Wait here. We should not be gone long. Touch nothing—they will be watching you."

"Yes, lord," said Sugai, bowing his snowy-braided head.

"And if you don't return?" Hoch asked, his eyes flicking about the vale.

Chovuk shrugged, dismissing the question. Of course he would return. He handed the empty pouch to Hult, then nodded to the rings on the ground. "Tenach, gather those and come with me. The mountain awaits."

If the mountains had been unsettling for a warrior bred in the open land of the Tamire, the caverns of Xagal were terrifying. The stone seemed to press in around Hult, tons of it hanging above his head, waiting to fall down. The tunnel was too narrow for him and Chovuk to walk side by side, so Hult went first, a guttering torch in his hand. It shed only enough light to make the gloom seem even more oppressive. It was black under the mountain, darker even than a starless night. He had the feeling his fire-brand was the first to light these warrens in long centuries. Maybe ever.

The walls of the passage were crudely cut, irregular and unfinished, and the path twisted like a serpent, or the bowels of some vast, stone beast. The floor was no better, and sometimes they almost had to climb to keep going forward. Meanwhile, in the darkness, the mountain groaned, sending trickles of grit spilling out of cracks over their heads. The air was stale and dry, smelling faintly of rot.

If this way collapses, Hult thought over and over, they will never find us. We will be devoured by the stone, and our ghosts will haunt this place until the world's ending.

Chovuk seemed untroubled. Maybe he was only hiding his fears, but Hult felt certain he truly was unafraid. That made his chest swell with pride, and drove away some of his dread. His master was a great man. If his plan to make war on the bull-men succeeded, he would be remembered as one of the greatest Boylas the Tamire had ever seen.

The cave came upon them so abruptly that it nearly cost Hult his life. One moment the tunnel was snaking ahead, plunging ever deeper into the heartrock of the mountain, and the next, his foot stepped on nothing but open air. He began to fall, and only Chovuk's firm hand, grabbing the back of his vest, kept him from plummeting into the chasm. Ahead was nothing but yawning blackness, untouched by the torch-light.

"You come," said the raspy voice from the midst of the dark. "King waits."

"There," Chovuk whispered, pointing to their left. "Follow that."

There was, indeed, a path, though barely visible: a narrow ledge, maybe an arm's length wide, that wound around the wall of a cavern, carved out of undulating, milky flowstone. The wall was wet. Trickles of water ran down it, making the ledge slippery as well. Hult edged along, testing his footing. Slowly the path descended, until finally the floor—made of the same pale, glistening rock—rose to meet them. Hult stepped off the path first, then Chovuk. The trail went on into the looming darkness, marked by bladelike shards of obsidian, set into the softer rock. On either side, great stalagmite pillars rose like trees toward the unseen ceiling. The sound of dripping water was everywhere. There was movement all around them too, just out of sight. Hult could feel it, as surely as he could sense a pheasant in the grasses. He also thought he saw points of red and yellow light—eyes—dancing beyond the glow of his flame.

O my ancestors, he prayed. O great Jijin, watch over me in this terrible night…

The path ended. A flight of steps, crudely cut into the milky rock, led up onto a dais. Hult looked back at Chovuk, who nodded, and they began to climb. The shuffling of feet and the scratch of claws filled the air behind them.

"If anything goes wrong," the Boyla murmured, "stay near me."

What could go wrong? Hult thought, and nearly said aloud. He had to fight back a bubble of panicked laughter—if he let it out, he wasn't sure he would be able to stop.

They came to the top of the steps. Ahead, something huge loomed in the shadows. Chovuk put a hand on Hult's shoulder, stopping him as he reached for his shuk. He pointed at the pouch instead, and Hult opened it again, spilling the rings upon the dais.

"Great King," Chovuk proclaimed, raising his voice to nearly a shout. Eerily, no echoes greeted his words, for the cave devoured noise as well as light. "I bring gifts before you, and ask your alliance."

The hugeness stirred. A voice boomed out of the dim shadows, deeper and clearer than the one that had greeted them outside. "You would ally with the mountain people? Pah! We know you, who call yourselves men. You would have us as slaves to do your bidding and carry your burdens for crusts of moldy bread! Then you would cut our throats, rather than let us come back here in peace. Thus has it always been. We will not hear you."

Chovuk nodded, undeterred. "You are right to suspect us. Often have the men of the plains used you and given no reward. But this is a different day. I am not like my forebears—I shall deal plainly with you, on my life and the lives of my kindred."

Again the shadows shifted. Hult heard a worrying sound, as of a great, leathery weight sliding over stone.

"Say on," the voice rumbled. "What would you give us?"

"Blood and plunder," Chovuk said. "We make war on the Kazar, and then on the bull-men. You know they have great riches, and their flesh is sweet to your tongues. You will have your choice for the feasting, and one part in four of all we loot from their fat cities."

A horrid sound rose from the darkness behind them—a chorus of chittering and slobbering that made sweat spring from Hult's brow. He kept his eyes forward, though, upon the darkness. The huge presence stirred again, scraping the rock.

"You hear my people," the thing before them said. "They crave what you offer. But you count on this—of course you do. That is why you say these things. The words of men are poisoned honey. I do not believe you. Tsopuk!"

At the strange, hissing word, blazing light sprang to life. Hult gasped, turning away and shielding his stinging eyes, then made himself look again. In the harsh, blue-white glow that had blossomed before them, the cave shone like a skull, filled with fangs of rock that thrust down from the ceiling to meet the columns from the floor. Holes studded the walls, leading to other caverns deeper into the mountains. On the ledges between these, and all over the floor, the Wretched Ones had gathered: horrid, squat, yellow-skinned things with snaggle-toothed jaws and evil, catlike eyes. They carried spears of rusty iron and hatchets of sharpened stone, and wore furs and skins for armor, laced with plates made from the shells of giant beetles. There were more of the creatures than he could tally—certainly hundreds, maybe thousands—all snarling and leering and sticking out black, pointed tongues. They had lit the lights—great, stone bowls of blue fire that stood all around the cave.

Hult dropped his torch and reached for his shuk, knowing he couldn't possibly hope to overcome so many. He would kill enough to make them rue the day, though.

"Tenach," Chovuk murmured. "They are not the problem. Look forward."

Hult glanced at the Boyla, who looked unusually pale in the eerie light, then turned back and saw what was on the dais with them. For a breath, his wits fled. It took three more to convince himself he hadn't gone mad.

If the King of the Mountain had been a goblin once, it showed only the barest signs of that lineage. Its face had the same low-browed, glowering stupidity as the gibbering things in the cave behind them, but was bloated and colorless, with bloodshot pink eyes widely spaced on either side of its bony snout. Long, slender fangs jutted from between its lips. Below that huge, ugly head was something even worse: the body of a giant worm, white with purple veins coiled beneath the skin. It stretched six paces in length, all dripping with slime, with a hooked barb on its tail. A bead of black venom hung from the stinger, and he knew that its sting was death.

"Now you die," the worm-thing snarled. The cave filled with the cheers of the goblins.

Instinct alone saved Hult's life, for his mind was still lost in terror. He threw himself sideways, hitting the rocky floor and rolling as the fanged head darted forward. He ended up hanging halfway over the edge of the dais, and had a horrible moment when he thought he would fall. Grimacing, he heaved himself back upright, then his saber rang clear of its scabbard, the noise loud in the stillness of the cave. He saw that Chovuk had dodged the King as well, having leaped to the other side, and the Boyla had his own sword out, held before him as the abomination turned toward him. Its stinger rose off the ground and swayed back and forth, scattering drops of poison that smoked when they hit the stone.

Madly, Hult leaped at the worm, his blade flashing in a tight arc. Steel plunged into the worm's belly, and black grease sprayed from the wound, stinking of rotten fish. The creature roared, its head whipping around toward him, and he heard a whistle and ducked just in time to avoid the stinger as it flashed at his face. He stabbed the worm a second time, and the shuk lodged in its innards. The King thrashed, screeching, and the blade was wrenched from Hult's hand. He staggered, then the stinger plunged at him again. He caught the tail and held it, barely an inch from his face, the force of its weight bearing him down until he lay flat on the dais. The weight of the monster crushed him, made his arms burn with the effort of pushing it off him. Drops of venom fell on his cheeks, and he howled in agony as they seared his flesh. The monster laughed horribly, and the goblins shouted in encouragement.

Then the goblins' cries changed from glee to horror, and Hult heard a sound—a menacing, feline snarl. He'd heard that sound before, at the Mourning-stone. His eyes flicked sideways. In the Boyla's place, crouched low and glaring, was the huge, lithe form of a steppe-tiger.

That's not possible, said a voice inside him, for some part of his mind had refused to accept what his master had done to defeat Torug Tegin. Then the stinger twitched, dropping even closer to his face, and he had to turn his full attention back to his predicament. He could see the venom glands throbbing on either side of the tip of the beast's tail. Amid the reek of the King's blood, he smelled his own flesh burning.

Then the worm shrieked, making an unholy sound like tearing metal. The tiger answered with a roar and a leap. At once the barb tore from Hult's hands and whipped away, and he lurched to his feet, gasping. He looked, just in time to see the great cat clamp its powerful jaws around the worm's throat. Black slime gushed over both of them, and the tiger shook its head mightily, trying to break the King's neck. Dying, the worm raised its stinger one last time.

Hult moved without thinking, once again. He dove for Chovuk's shuk, where it had dropped after his master had changed his skin. Scooping up the blade, he spun, lashing out with a cry of rage. Steel bit into flesh, and the tip of the worm's tail sheared away, slapping into the wall behind it, then tumbling down to the cave floor. Ribbons of ichor gushed from the wound. The monster's strength flagged, and the tiger bore it to the ground. Bringing its hind claws up, the cat raked them through the worm's bowels. With an awful, choking gargle, the King of the Mountain died.

Across the cave, the goblins fell silent. Stunned, they watched as Hult and the tiger rose from the ruins of the beast that had ruled them. Hult lifted his master's dripping sword, ready for their vengeful onslaught. But they did not budge. They stared as the tiger padded forward to stand at the head of the stairs.

The air shimmered and blurred, and Hult blinked, fearing the worm's poison had blinded him. But then it stopped, and he stared in amazement—as did the Wretched Ones. The tiger was gone, and Chovuk stood in its place, battered and bloodied but whole. He glared out across the cavern, then reached behind him. Hult stepped forward, handing him his shuk. Blade in hand, the Boyla turned and hewed the dead King's head from its body with a single, mighty stroke. Raising the gruesome trophy high, he cast the head down the stairs to burst on the floor below. The goblins looked at one another uneasily, shying back from the dais.

"I say again!" Chovuk cried. "Plunder and blood are yours, if you join us! What is your answer, people of the mountain?"

The cave was silent. Then a large goblin with a withered arm came forward. He wore a headdress made from the carapace of a cave scorpion, the wicked tail rising up over his head. In his good hand he held a staff hung with dried ears. He stood amid the remains of the King's head, staring up at the Boyla.

"I Gharmu," he rasped, clapping his hand to his chest. Hult recognized the voice that had greeted them outside the mountain and brought them to this place. "Speak for mountain people."

"Hai, Gharmu," Chovuk said solemnly, raising his saber in salute. "Will you follow me?"

The deformed goblin paused, then laid his staff upon the stairs. The Wretched Ones murmured in awe. "Blood and plunder," he snarled. "We follow you… King."

To Hult's amazement, Gharmu knelt. The rest of the goblins followed his lead, prostrating themselves before the Boyla. Chovuk tossed his head proudly, a gesture that evoked the tiger he had been bare moments before, then smiled down upon his new subjects.

Hult couldn't help it. A grin spread across his face, and he began to laugh.