Chapter 12

Ghost Hills, the Tamire

Chovuk was talking again, alone in his yurt, in the dead of night. Hult, who had sat guard since the evening's feast—the Boyla had shot a succulent running-lizard upon the plains—roused from drowsing. There had been kumiss to go with the meat, made from the milk of Flying Star, Chovuk's favorite mare. Hult reflected, as his head swam, that he could have done with less drink.

He would have to find some yarta root to chew in the morning, to get his stamina back. If he had time before the battle.

The hum of his master's voice was too low to hear again. It always was. Hardly a night had passed in the month since they'd left the mountains of Ilquar without the Boyla speaking to his unseen companion, late at night. In all that time, Hult hadn't made out a single word of their conversation. Nor had he mentioned it to Chovuk. He had many questions, but not the station to ask them. It was not his place.

The Wretched Ones hadn't joined the horde right away. It would have made for an uneasy alliance, and the goblins were not all united. Instead, Chovuk had named Gharmu to rule in his stead, instructing the shaman to gather all the tribes scattered throughout the Uesi Ilquar and to meet him two weeks' ride northeast of Mount Xagal to take their revenge against the Kazar. Then he and the Tegins had left the mountains, bound east across the broad sweep of the Tamire.

Not all the lords liked the alliance he had forged with the goblins. Hoch, in particular, resented it. He had argued against the alliance as recently as three nights ago, at the speaking-fire where the highest Tegins gathered to confer with the Boyla.

"Peace?" Hoch had scoffed. "With the Wretched Ones? They are weak, traitorous. They are not worthy to fight alongside men. Whom will you ally with next, Chovuk? The Snow-men of Panak?"

The Tegins had laughed at that notion, and Chovuk had joined him. Then, almost casually, he had drawn his shuk and in a flash brought it sweeping around at Hoch's neck. It stopped in time, creasing the young lord's flesh and drawing a trickle of blood.

The laughter had died abruptly.

"If I mean to, I will tame the flame-folk of the Burning Sea," Chovuk had said, his voice soft and gentle. "I will call the gnomes out of their tunnels and the white apes down from the Ring-peaks. All the north will fight beneath my banner, if I wish it." Slowly, he lifted the saber away. "But you, Hoch Tegin, may leave this company now, if you choose. Do you?"

Hult had to fight back a smile. The Boyla had turned the question from the wisdom of his decision to Hoch's loyalty. The young Tegin had designs on leading the Uigan one day, and if he quit a war-band, the shame would rob him of that chance. His face dark, Hoch had shaken his head and not spoken a word for the rest of the meeting.

"The goblins will fight with us," Sugai Tegin had said, the old man's face pale beneath his many tattoos. "They will be the first into battle and into the teeth of our enemies' archers. Thus our people will remain strong, and fewer will die. It is no different than using dogs to hunt."

The other Tegins had nodded. They had long respected Sugai's counsel. Still, a few had remained troubled.

"It is one thing to tell this to us," Yol Tegin, lord of the Horned Moon clan, had said. "We are learned men, all. But the common rider… what will he say when the goblins join us? Will there not be discontent?"

"There will not," Sugai had replied. "You will keep your men in line, Yol. All of you will."

"Any man who questions shall be flogged by my command," Chovuk had added. "Let the whip be my answer. If he complains again, or threatens to leave, then it is the sword. Stake his head so all may see."

Murmurs had greeted this. Some of the chiefs had looked troubled, but others smiled and nodded their heads. "Listen to the Boyla," they had said. "The Tiger is wise."

That, in the end, was all it took. Chovuk the Tiger, Chovuk Skin-changer… not since the days of the Great Boylas, days known only in song, had the lords of the Uigan had the power to take the form of beasts. After the Destruction, such magic had vanished from the Tamire. But Jijin had blessed their prince and given him the power of the steppe-tiger. Who were they to question one favored by the gods?

So there they were, on the edge of Kazar lands, awaiting the Wretched Ones. Waiting for their hunting dogs to come. There had been a few skirmishes with Kazar outriders, but no real battles yet. The Uigan horde—ten thousand lances strong—stood poised to avenge Krogan Boyla, here at the Tamire's edge, where the rocky hills wore beards of snow. They had camped here for two days, a mass of yurts and cooking fires filling three separate valleys. Then, the previous night, the scouts had reported from the west: a mass of goblins was approaching, two thousand strong, and was marching across the Tamire. Gharmu had kept his word. The next day, they would arrive. The next day, the war would begin.

In the moonless dark—it was past midnight and halfway to morning—Hult gazed into the distance, into the lands of the Kazar, and felt the stirrings of doubt. Alone of all the warriors in the horde, he knew that the Kazar had not slain Krogan. Yes, they had tried… come close, even. And yes, they had been the enemies of the Uigan since time out of memory. But Chovuk had killed the old Boyla and made it look like the Kazar had done it. All so he could rule the Tamire, and have his war. There was nothing wrong with war, but every day it troubled Hult more that all of this, all that had happened and would happen, was based on a lie.

You are tenach, he told himself. Your master is all. You do not question. You only act.

He grimaced, rubbing his aching head. He could never speak out against Chovuk. No one would believe him—and even if they did, if they agreed the Tiger was not worthy to rule, what would become of Hult? His life as tenach would be over, and that was all he had. Besides, there was another thing: he loved his master, right or wrong. Even beyond any oaths he had sworn. How could he turn against a man he loved?

Hult wasn't sure when the murmuring within the yurt began to change, but suddenly he was aware of a new urgency in the Boyla's voice. His voice was higher and tighter—louder, too. For the first time, he could make out words, but they were not of the Uigan tongue. Instead, they seemed to crawl around his mind like ants, their meaning out of reach. He glanced over his shoulder in alarm, his hand going to the hilt of his sword, and caught his breath.

There was light within the yurt, spilling out beneath the flap. It was not the warm, golden glow of candle or oil-lamp, however. This light was pale and sickly, a putrid hue between brown and green. It brightened and dimmed as he watched, pulsing like a living thing. There was a sound, as well… a heartbeat thrumming so low that he sensed it in his bowels more than his ears.

Sorcery! At once he was on his feet, blade drawn, the haze of kumiss gone from his head. He was forbidden from entering the yurt without permission—unless he was convinced that his master was in danger. He was through the flap without a second thought, ready to lash out at whatever was shedding that horrible glow. It stabbed at his eyes, making them water, and he threw up a hand to ward it off. The noise made his stomach lurch, nausea awakening deep inside him.

Chovuk stood in the middle of the tent, surrounded by a ring of the rancid light, which shimmered like a curtain up to the ceiling. He was nearly naked, wearing only a breechcloth and his dragon-claw necklace. His arms stretched out to either side, hanging in the air as if held up by cords. His head was thrown back and his mouth twitched as it formed the words of magic.

There is someone else here.

Hult felt the presence, as he had sensed the goblins in the caverns of Xagal. The feeling made him think of the jackals that followed the shepherds of his tribe, skulking beyond the lights of the campfires and waiting for a lamb to stray from the flock. There was the same sense of patient hunger to whatever was in the yurt with them. Hult raised his shuk, looking for whoever had done this to the Boyla.

"Show yourself!" he shouted. "Bring yourself to my blade!"

There came a new sensation, which made him stagger: hate, a great spike of it, driving through him. He gritted his teeth, fighting to keep his feet—then, with a quaking, joyless laugh, the presence vanished from the room. The green light flared, then went out, leaving crimson ghosts dancing before Hult's eyes. He blinked, and when he could see again Chovuk had fallen to his knees. The Boyla's eyes had rolled back, showing white. Foam flecked his lips.

"Master!" Hult cried, dropping his sword and leaping forward.

He caught Chovuk as he was beginning to fall, easing the listless weight to the floor. The Boyla was covered with sweat, but his skin was cold. For a long moment he did not breathe, and Hult cast about desperately, not sure what to do. He was just about to cry out for Sugai, or one of the other Tegins, when Chovuk sucked in a ragged, gasping lungful of air. For a few breaths he twitched and struggled, but Hult held him fast. Finally, the Boyla relaxed, his eyes fluttering. His chest rose and fell slowly. Hult spoke his name, but he didn't respond; he had fallen into deep sleep.

Calmer now, Hult lifted Chovuk from the floor. The Boyla was not a small man, but he felt strangely frail and light as Hult carried him to the mound of furs he used for a bed. Carefully, Hult laid him down and covered him with a blanket, then rose and went to fetch his sword. He looked around the yurt one last time, but there was no sign of the presence he had sensed earlier. They were alone.

With a sigh of relief, Hult went back outside and sat down again, his blade across his knees. He peered out into the gloom again, but this time he felt no fear. No, he felt doubt… the doubt was back, and now it was growing.

The goblins arrived shortly after dawn, beneath a cloud-sheeted sky—a huge, disorderly mass of them, abristle with tribal standards and hooked spears. They moved on foot, cowled and cloaked against the sunlight they despised, their pale red eyes gleaming. Gharmu rode at their head, resplendent in moldering robes, his scorpion-shell headdress glistening in the rusty morning light. He raised his good hand in greeting as Chovuk and Hult rode out to meet him.

Behind the Boyla, the Uigan gathered, the Tegins at the front. Archers fitted arrows to bowstrings, ready to loose if anything went wrong—but Sugai watched them, snapping at any who hastened to raise his weapon. The Wretched Ones shifted and muttered to one another, eyeing the riders as warily as the Uigan eyed them. All it would take was one misfired arrow, and this alliance would collapse in a welter of blood.

In the silence, broken only by the hiss of wind through the grass, Chovuk dismounted and walked up to the goblins' new king. Hult followed, a hand on the hilt of his shuk.

"We come," grunted Gharmu, bowing his head. "Bring many tribes. Would bring more, but no time."

"It is enough," Chovuk replied. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You have brought me a mighty force. Well done, Gharmu—I am pleased."

The shaman glanced up, an almost pathetic look of pleasure in his eyes. Sugai Tegin had known better than he realized, likening the Wretched Ones to dogs. It was a hound's admiration in Gharmu's eyes. Gharmu raised his head, the gnarled stub of his nose twitching as he caught something on the breeze. It blew out of the west, swaying the few scattered birch trees that grew among the Ghost Hills.

"Smell them. Kazar dogs," croaked the shaman, his eyes narrowing to slits.

"Yes, my friend," said Chovuk. He laid a hand on the goblin's head. Hult tensed. He sensed no treachery from Gharmu, but the elders' tales were filled with dead lords whose tenachai had sensed no treachery until too late. "I have decided to honor you for your long journey and loyalty. You will taste first blood this day."

Gharmu looked up, awestruck. "First blood? You say true?"

"I say true." The Boyla pointed west. "Beyond our camp lies Khal, the greatest town of the Kazar. Your people will attack it first, and kill as you please. Take fingers to fill the rings I have given you. I only ask one thing of you."

"What thing? Say, and I give."

The shaman's eyes were gleaming now, the promise of slaughter giving them a feverish sheen. Nearby, other goblins—from little, stunted imps to hulking, hunchbacked brutes, no two alike—fingered their weapons and bared crooked fangs. Even those who hadn't heard Chovuk's words could sense the coming bloodshed. Hult shivered, looking at the ravening mob. For an odd moment, he felt a flash of pity for the people of Khal. There would be much grief among the Kazar today.

"When you find their chief, do not kill him," Chovuk said. "He is for my blade alone. Will you do this?"

Gharmu stared at him, long and hard. Finally he nodded. "We spare chief. Give to you."

"Good," said the Boyla. "Now go, Gharmu of Xagal. Go, and slake your thirst upon your enemies."

Khal was a quiet town, a place of tents and sod huts, surrounded by horse paddocks. Smoke hung over the town, which was sheltered from the wind by snowy hills, like a blanket. At the center of town, a large stone well sank deep into the earth. It was very old, and had been there when the Kazar first came to those lands, centuries ago. The remains of thirteen statues encircled the well; tall, beautiful figures that were neither man nor elf. Most were broken in some way, missing an arm, or a head, or sheared away at the waist. The Kazar called them Dejal Ugai, the First People. Their tale-singers said the Abaqua ogres, who dwelt in the thick pine forests farther east, were all that remained of them. They prayed, sometimes, to the statues, but no answer ever came.

They did not pray that day. They knew the Uigan were close, and that the statues' power—if they had ever had power—would not protect them. Not in a hundred years had their blood enemies penetrated so deeply into Kazar lands. They looked to their king, Duskblade, for guidance. Should they flee? Seek shelter in the caves, deeper in the hills?

"To what end?" answered Duskblade. He was a tall man, nearly seven feet, as slender and taut as a whip, and clad in thick furs from head to toe. He wore his graying hair short, in the custom of his people, save for a knot hound up at the back. His moustaches were long and braided, and kept supple with rancid butter. He gestured around him with the blade of his varun, the cleaver-like blade his people wielded instead of the shuk. "Do you think we would escape them? They have come for our blood, and will not be deterred if we run. And we would be scattered then, and easier to pick off. No… this is our home. We will face the Uigan worms here! Let the songs of this day be ballads of glory, not dirges of defeat! Drive them back, say I—drive them back, all the way to their corpse-hung rock!"

The warriors of Khal replied with a round of raucous shouts, lifting their varuns into the air. It was a fine speech, and gave them courage. Then a sound rose that stole their courage away.

They had expected the thunder of hooves, the high, keening shouts of the riders as they approached. There had never been a time when Kazar and Uigan were not at war, and the warriors of the eastern tribes knew well the din of an approaching band of horsemen. But the clamor that arose beyond the hills was nothing like that. Instead of the hooves, there was the tromp of many running feet. Instead of battle-cries, there was a cacophony of bestial noises: growls, snarls, gibbering, and shrill howls that made the men grit their teeth. The men glanced at one another, confused, then at their king.

Duskblade was as puzzled as they were, though, and cast about, looking to the scout-towers west of town. The towers were crude works of lashed-together wood, rising up to platforms fifty feet above the ground. Young men stood watch atop them, with great drums to sound when danger was near. The drums had begun to roll, with a signal unheard in Khal for many generations, not since the dark times after the Destruction. This was not the low, ominous roll that warned of approaching Uigan, but a series of short, sharp thuds that grew fast, then slow, fast then slow.

The Wretched Ones had come.

"That makes no sense," Duskblade muttered, though there was no denying that the shrieks and yowls echoing among the hills were the voices of goblins. None of the outriders had said anything about the Wretched Ones. It was Chovuk Boyla and his horde they all spoke of. So what—

"Look!" someone cried. Fingers pointed. Somewhere, across the town, a woman screamed.

Duskblade turned. Figures swarmed over the western rise now, hundreds of them, running as fast as galloping horses. Vicious little creatures, yammering and waving bent and rusty weapons. Horror-struck, he watched as they broke around the guard-towers. Some started to climb, while others hewed with axes at their bases. In the end the latter won out, and the towers groaned and toppled while the goblins continued their climbing. Most of the watchmen died in the crash, but a few rose and set to with their blades, trying to keep the Wretched Ones back. None of them lasted more than a dozen breaths, however, before the sheer weight of the goblins bore them down, and they vanished in the flood.

Duskblade's mouth went dry. He'd expected to fight this day, probably to die… but he'd counted on his foes being men. This was different. His people would meet their end, but there would be no honor in it. There would be only suffering.

He glanced at the statues in the midst of the camp, then spat in the dirt, cursing the Dejal Ugai and all their works. They had proven no help at all.

The Wretched Ones poured down the hill, toward Khal. The warriors of the Kazar shifted, no longer certain what to do. Their king was also uncertain, but he would not show his vacillation before them. Would not show fear. He raised his varun, his lip curling in a sneer.

"Bows!" He cried. "Loose your arrows! Send these filth back to the Abyss! Kill them all!"

Emboldened, his men answered with a raucous cheer. They sheathed their swords and fit leather-fletched arrows on their bowstrings. One by one, then in waves, they pulled and released. Black shafts rose, then dived down into the midst of the charging goblins. A few fell, pierced and shattered. Not enough, though—Duskblade could see that. So could any man with eyes.

The Kazar launched a second volley, then a third. A few men managed a fourth. But that was all—a few score of the Wretched Ones were dead, and the rest were slamming into Khal's earthen ramparts with force enough to shake the whole town. Screeching for blood, they climbed up and over and into the town. Into the ranks of the warriors, drawing their varuns, the terror back in their eyes and never to leave them again. Men died in waves, skewered, pulled down, and torn apart. Fangs sank into flesh. Rending sounds mixed with screams of agony.

Duskblade watched, sick to his core, as the Wretched Ones swept over his men. It was already ending, over nearly before it could begin. The rear ranks, seeing the ruin that became of the front, scattered and ran. Goblins chased them down, rammed spears in their backs, tackled them and bore them to the ground. Some carried torches. The westernmost huts were burning, dark tongues of smoke licking the sky. Tears tracked down Duskblade's face. He was the king of a dead people. The singers would never utter his name.

There was only one thing left to do. With a roar of grief, he raised his blade and charged the onrushing monsters.

There wasn't much left by the time the Uigan arrived. Khal was in flames and the statues at its center had been pulled down. Dust and smoke hung in the air. Bodies and parts of bodies littered the ground, torn apart and half-devoured. Goblins chased women and children through the burning wreckage, killing with glee. The screams of the dead and dying filled the air.

Hult tasted bile as he beheld what had become of the town and its people. He'd heard tales of the destruction a marauding goblin tribe could cause, but had never seen it firsthand. As much as he hated the Kazar, he felt a twinge of pity as well. This was no way to die, not when they hadn't even killed Krogan. He fought to keep his face blank, expressionless.

There was laughter elsewhere among the riders. And why not? As far as they knew, the Kazar were Boyla-slayers. They deserved this. And the Uigan had gotten their revenge without a single man lost. Obeying the commands of their Tegins, warriors began galloping around the town to encircle it, then fanned out to ride down any Kazar who had escaped the mayhem. Hult knew there wouldn't be many, but some shuks would still be bloodied. And there was always the next day: there were more villages, not far away. Plenty of kills to go around, once they left Khal in blood and ashes.

Chovuk flashed a predatory smile. "Good, good," he said. "Better than I'd hoped, in fact. The bull-men will not stand long before this."

"They may, behind their walls of stone," said Hoch Tegin, who sat his horse nearby. He was enjoying the slaughter as well.

The Boyla laughed. "Do you think I forgot about the minotaurs' walls? Leave that to me, boy."

Hoch's face colored at the insult, and he opened his mouth to reply. Before he could, however, Sugai pointed back down toward the town. "Gharmu. He comes, with a burden," the old man said.

So he did. Peering through the smoke, Hult saw the shaman leading two of his larger brutes up the slope from Khal. Between them, the big goblins bore the limp figure of a very tall man, clad in furs. One hand, missing all but one of its fingers, dangled down from the body, trailing in the dirt.

Duskblade, king of the Kazar, was still breathing when he was dumped at Chovuk Boyla's feet—but just barely. "He kill thirty of us," Gharmu explained. "Not easy to stop."

"No," Chovuk said, swinging down from his horse. "He would not be."

The Kazar's face was a ruin, covered in blood—some his own, most of it goblin. His mouth was filled with jagged, broken teeth, his nose mashed flat, and one eye was so badly swollen it could no longer open. A mallet to the face had brought him down. His good eye rolled as he looked up at Chovuk, and he tried to speak, tried to curse the Boyla. All that came out, though, was a long thread of bloody spittle.

The Boyla drew his shuk.

"Your kind slew our prince," he declared, and Hult tried not to flinch at the spoken lie. "You ambushed him and left him filled with arrows. You have brought this on yourselves. Know that when we are done, the Kazar will be a scattered people, dying slow among these Jijin-forsaken hills."

Duskblade shook his head. He raised his unmaimed hand, an absurd protective gesture. Tears leaked down his cheeks.

"Go to your ancestors, dog," Chovuk said, and swung his sword twice. The first blow took off the man's hand at the wrist. The second cut off his head.

All was still. Chovuk stood over Duskblade's corpse, watching the blood darken the earth around it. The Tegins did the same. No one laughed or spoke. Even Gharmu stood silently, waiting for what would happen next.

Finally, Chovuk turned to Hult. "Take that," he said, pointing at the king's head. "I will plant it on a spear before my yurt. Let all who behold it know justice is done for Krogan Boyla. The goblins can have the rest."

He turned and strode away, the Tegins trailing after. Hult watched as Gharmu ordered his brutes to take Duskblade's body. The shaman, meanwhile, picked up the severed hand and began to remove fingers, for the rings the Boyla had given him. His prizes.

His face like stone, Hult bent to pick up King Duskblade's head.