The White Song (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 5)

by Phil Tucker

  But he bit his tongue and instead hid his face against Aedelbert’s skinny flank, pressed his nose and brow into the cat’s fur. His mind was coming apart at the seams. He wanted to laugh, to sob, to step out of the golden light and fall into the darkness. He didn’t deserve to be here. He didn’t deserve to drain the Ascendant of his power, no matter where it came from.

  “By the Serpent Mother,” Ilina whispered in a tone of horror and awe.

  One of the Hundred Serpents was murmuring to himself what sounded like a prayer, and he was soon joined by his companions. Audsley had never seen them so unnerved.

  The Ascendant remained still, and their sphere flowed faster over the cracked and shattered ground, weaving around raised stone and floating over cracks.

  Audsley kept his face buried in Aedelbert’s side. He wanted desperately to turn around and gaze upon what was following them. But something told him that doing so would unhinge him completely, would cut the last ropes that moored his sanity. So, instead, he breathed in Aedelbert’s scent, took comfort from the rapid heartbeat he felt through the firecat’s side, and waited.

  “Hold on, Aedelbert,” he whispered as tears ran from his eyes and mingled with the fur. “I’ll protect you. I swear it.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Tiron

  Only a lifetime of experience allowed Tiron to maintain a collected facade as he stood amongst the others, to project a demeanor of calm control and not allow his emotions to break free. Iskra had fallen — perhaps to her death — within the bowels of Starkadr. Tharok the Uniter was standing before him, within reach of Tiron’s blade. Demons by the thousands had been released into the world, making the kragh invasion seem a negligible threat in comparison.

  Fear and hatred bubbled up within him, shot through with a terrible frustration and a borderline sense of panic. Had he but half an hour ago thought the war all but won, the Empire saved, and only a few details left to take care of?

  Now Asho lay as if dead, Kethe was reeling on the verge of collapsing, and they had all listened to the Uniter’s opinion as if he were a trusted ally and not their greatest foe. Only the dragons at their back gave Tiron the presence of mind to remain still, to not act rashly and wait till he was his own master once more. To listen, to process, and when ready, to contribute.

  Shaya was translating Tharok’s words. “He says he has some four thousand warriors left to him, but he cannot guarantee their loyalty when he declares their invasion over and orders them instead to fight demons. Without the guidance of their traditional shamans, many kragh will refuse to enter the field of battle against what they will believe are evil spirits. His forces are scattered across the cities of Nous, Sige, Aletheia, and Zoe. When we alert them to the dangers we now face, we will have to present them with an immediate plan so as not to give them time to panic or revolt.”

  Ramswold had remained mostly quiet, arms crossed, but now he spoke up. “We have lost access to Ennoia. If our remaining forces were indeed gathered beneath Starkadr when it fell, then the Empire has no more soldiers to contribute. With every Ennoian Solar Portal destroyed, we can’t reach the city. We can’t reach Starkadr. We can’t attack the demons. We can only anticipate their attack and resist them.” He was clearly struggling no to give in to despair. “Resist them with unwilling kragh.”

  “Not completely true,” said Kethe. She struggled to focus, frowning as she spoke. “We were recalling some forces from the field who had yet to arrive. The largest was some kind of expeditionary force sent into the Zoeian hinterlands under the command of a Lord Melchior. He had about five hundred soldiers. And a Lord Mathewelin was ordered to bring back a thousand light cavalry from his mission in northern Ennoia.”

  “Listen,” said Tiron. “We’re not going to win this fight with soldiers on the field. One thousand, ten thousand, it doesn’t matter. These are demons we’re facing. They can fly. Throw fire. Who knows what else. We march a regiment of men into battle, and they’ll be destroyed.”

  Everyone was staring at him, somber, attentive.

  “You fight fire with fire,” he continued. “What do we have that’s magical? Mythical? On their level? We have four dragons that can teleport us across the Empire. That’s good, but not enough. What else? We have Tharok’s evil fucking shamans, right? I saw them summon real evil spirits. Throw green flame, fly up into the air. We gather them up and use them. We have Kethe and whatever other Consecrated and Virtues we can round up. We have Asho and the Agerastian Vothaks.”

  People were nodding. Shaya was translating for Maur.

  “Last, we have the Ascendant. Our own god-figure. If anybody can go toe to toe with a mass of demons, it’s an incarnation of the divine. Not only that, but his presence on the field will keep the rest of the Empire from entering a suicidal frenzy of despair and self-destruction. We make collecting these forces our priority, and we start by rescuing the Ascendant if we can.”

  And Iskra, he thought, but that need not be said.

  “Yes,” said Kethe, her voice louder, more confident. “We need the Ascendant. And the Vothaks were with him, running the Portals from within Starkadr. There are no more Virtues left, though. I’m the last one.” She smiled brokenly at him then, and Tiron sensed how fragile she was. How much pressure she was under. Before he could try to reassure her, she soldiered on. “But there were some Consecrated sent to the other cities to watch the kragh forces. We can try to gather them.”

  “Good,” said Tiron. Should he compliment her? No. She’d been through too much. She’d see that as being condescended to. He needed to treat her like the warrior she was and let her gather herself on her own terms. “Good. Now, ask Tharok” – he tried not to spit the name –”about his evil fucking sorcerers.”

  The huge kragh warlord looked amused as he rumbled his response. “There are fewer than a dozen left, but with the medusa’s defeat, I do not know how they will act. I will order them brought here and will see if they will serve.”

  Tiron paused. “Ah. You speak common.”

  “Yes,” said Tharok. “But I prefer to speak my language so that Maur can understand.”

  “Great,” said Tiron, kicking himself mentally. “So. Our first order of business is getting inside Starkadr and rescuing the Ascendant, the Vothaks, and whomever else we find.”

  He felt Kethe’s gaze upon him but refused to meet it. She knew what he was getting at.

  “The dragons can take us to Ennoia,” said Ramswold.

  Tharok turned to regard the four dragons, rumbling a question as he did so.

  YES, said Skandengraur. WE CAN BEAR THOSE WHO ARE NEEDED INTO BATTLE.

  Tiron was about to continue outlining his plan, but Tharok resumed speaking in kragh. He’d not been joking about prioritizing Maur’s comprehension. Tiron went to interrupt, but Ramswold squeezed his arm.

  “Remember,” whispered the young lord. “Tharok’s a military genius. Let’s hear him out.”

  Tiron grunted sourly and relented.

  “He says we should plan a diversion,” said Shaya. “The dragons could transport a rescue group to the outskirts of Ennoia, and then time an attack on Starkadr to draw out the demons. The rescue group infiltrates Starkadr, finds the Ascendant, and then escapes back outside where the dragons will be watching for them and transport everyone away.”

  “Rescue group,” said Kethe. “Myself, then. Tharok? Who else? We don’t have time to search for the Consecrated.”

  “I will come,” said Tharok. “I will bring my best warriors and shamans.”

  “If we’re fighting demons,” Shaya said a little faintly, “how are we going to spot the rescue group when they emerge, and then have enough time to disengage and transport them out?”

  “We’ll have to figure that out on the fly,” said Tiron. “It’s a bad answer, but it’s the only one we have.”

  “Where do we flee to once we’re done?” asked Ramswold.

  “Back here,” said Tiron. “Let’s keep it simple.”

  “Ar
e we going now?” asked Shaya.

  Tiron looked around at the others, then nodded. “The longer we wait, the worse their odds of surviving become. We need to move fast.”

  Tharok barked out a command, its volume sudden and shocking. Tiron’s hand fell to the hilt of his blade.

  Tharok saw that and grinned. “I summon my shamans, knight. You have nothing to fear.”

  “Tiron,” said Ramswold.

  Tiron bit back his rejoinder and relaxed. “Very well. Just hurry the hell up.”

  The group fell apart. Tiron moved over to where Kethe was standing over Asho. Shaya was kneeling beside the Bythian’s supine form. There was so much he wanted to say. To ask. Instead, he met her haunted eyes and fought the desire to give her a hug.

  “What?” asked Kethe.

  “I was just thinking. Not too long ago, you tried to kill me on that beach outside Mythgræfen Hold. Now look at us. You a Virtue. Me riding a dragon.”

  “I notice you picked the black one.”

  “He picked me,” said Tiron, turning to eye Draumronin. “But, yes. We see eye to eye. I get the impression he’s as much of a bastard as I am.”

  “Well, that hasn’t changed, then.”

  Tiron could sense her pain. Her fear. It was like a great black void beneath her words. Simmering. Waiting to consume her. How much had she gone through these past few weeks? How much had she lost?

  “So.” He felt almost helpless before the scope of what had transpired. “You’re a Virtue now?”

  “Makaria. Yes. Somehow. I still don’t know... Actually, no. That’s not true anymore.” She rubbed the heel of her palm against her eye. “I’ve accepted it. I’ve been through too much to be pretend to still be naïve and surprised about it. So, yes. Makaria, the Virtue of Happiness. That’s me.”

  “I know it doesn’t mean shite,” said Tiron. “But I’m damn proud of you. I saw fire in you when we first met, and I wasn’t wrong. You’ve done an amazing job, Kethe. If we make it through this mess, folk will be singing about you, just like they do Lady Otheria.”

  Kethe’s eyes glimmered with tears, and she laughed brokenly. “By the Seven Virtues. She’s who inspired me to pick up a sword in the first place.”

  Tiron smiled right back. “Sorry, Kethe. You’re a Virtue now. You can’t swear by yourself. Not allowed.”

  She went to respond but stopped when a Portal of green flame appeared midair in front of Tharok.

  Tiron cursed and drew his blade in a fluid motion. Ramswold, Shaya, and Maur did the same. Tharok raised a hand and gave a warning growl. There was such authority in the kragh that Tiron actually paused. Heart pounding, remembering Death’s Raven, he watched as a dozen shamans came stumbling out through the Portal, their cowls awry, their eyes wild. When the last had emerged, the Portal closed with a snap, and Tiron shuddered, recalling a severed arm.

  “Can we trust them?” he asked Kethe, watching as the shamans lined up before Tharok.

  “We have no choice.”

  Tharok was lecturing them. His voice was inexorable, laying down the law. He gestured at the dragons. One of the shamans spoke in complaint, but he was silenced when Skandengraur rumbled menacingly. The hairs on the nape of Tiron’s neck and down his arms prickled. The shaman subsided.

  “They will serve,” said Tharok. “They are not pleased, but they wish to live.”

  Ramswold stepped forward. “Then, let us be on our way. Our cause is righteous. Never was there anything more foul than what we face, and never was any cause more holy. We go to save the Ascendant, and with him the soul of the Empire.” He looked around the group, meeting everyone’s eyes. “I’m proud to fly and fight with you. And if needs be, to die with you too.”

  Kethe arched an eyebrow. “He’s... very earnest,” she said quietly.

  “You have no idea,” said Tiron. “But don’t underestimate him. That boy’s going to leave his mark on the world.” He eyed her empty scabbard. “Where’s your blade?”

  She nodded at Tharok. “He broke it.”

  “You’re going to need something to hack your way into Starkadr.”

  “I know. I thought I’d find something here. I just haven’t had a chance to look.”

  “Here.” He unbuckled his scabbard. “Use this.”

  Kethe’s eyebrows rose. “Your family blade?”

  “Yes. I’m going to be on top of some five hundred tons of fire-breathing dragon. I can afford to settle for a regular weapon. This, however – I’ve seen this blade do some wondrous things. If it can help you find the Ascendant, then you should have it.”

  Kethe took the sword gingerly by the handle, then exhaled. “Oh.”

  “Yes,” said Tiron with a grin. “’Oh’ is right.”

  “No,” she said. “For a second there, when I held the sword — I heard the White Song louder than I ever have before.”

  “The White Song?”

  “It doesn’t matter. But this — this is a special blade.”

  “It is. So, don’t fucking lose it. Now…” He strode forward and clapped Ramswold on the shoulder. “Everyone! Mount up. Tharok, split your shamans between each dragon —”

  But Tharok was already giving his commands, and the shamans were moving in groups of three to stand before the dragons, waiting in obvious fear and misery. Another three mountain kragh joined each group, some of them with the same matte black skin as Tharok, all of them with the look of veterans to them.

  The dragons fanned their wings, stirring up dust, and then moved closer so that everyone could mount. Tiron felt a jagged jolt of excitement course through him. Hold on, Iskra. I’m coming. Nothing’s going to keep me from your side.

  Within moments, the war party was mounted. Tiron grasped Draumronin’s great spine and leaned forward.

  “You ever visit Ennoia?”

  IT WAS A VILLAGE WHEN I LAST FLEW OVER IT.

  “That works. Can you transport us just outside it?”

  LET US SEE.

  The world fell away, and Tiron clutched at the horn, squeezing his thighs around the black dragon’s neck. This was not the sickening passage through a demon Portal, but rather an instantaneous movement between far-flung locations.

  The great cavern of Bythos was gone, and in its place was the midday sun in the midst of the great and illimitable blue sky of early spring in Ennoia. Draumronin hadn’t leaped into the air, hadn’t sought to fly; his weight settled on new footing, and moments later, the other dragons appeared around them.

  Nobody spoke.

  All eyes were turned toward the center of Ennoia, where a great and shattered mountain listed, gleaming blackly in the sunlight like a shard of absolute night torn from the space between the stars. There were no human carvings on its exterior, no towers or ramps as there were in Aletheia or on the towers of Nous; Tiron saw only great jagged cliffs, explosions of sharp rock like waves that had petrified the moment they collapsed upon the shore. Parts were glassine and smooth, others fractured and ruined, but it was the scale that beggared the mind. The sheer colossal size of it robbed Tiron of words.

  What manner of men had crafted that stonecloud, torn it free of the earth and set it to flying for centuries in the sky, powered by the caged might of countless demons?

  As large as it was, Starkadr did not completely cover Ennoia. It was ringed by the remains of the city, a sprawl of two and three-story buildings from amongst which arose countless plumes of dark smoke. The smell of burning wood mingled with the common scents of the city, and here and there Tiron saw winged forms flitting over the rooftops only to dive down and elicit screams.

  They’d appeared in a marshy field just outside a sprawl of shacks and rough houses clustered around the base of a great city wall. A large gate stood perhaps three or four hundred yards to their left, and countless families were streaming out through its open doors, cluttering the highway with what goods they could clutch to their chests, hauling children by the hand, whipping at mules that pulled carts laden with sacks and aged family me
mbers.

  The people of Ennoia were fleeing in terror.

  Even at this distance, the dragons were impossible to miss.

  Shouts turned into screams, and Tiron watched in frustration as the people pointed at them then turned to flee off the road along the far city wall, abandoning sacks and carts to get away.

  “Well, shit,” he said. Not that he could blame them. “Let’s go. The last thing I want to do is cause an old woman to break her ankle running away from me.”

  The shamans and kragh warriors slipped down from his dragon’s back, falling the last few yards to land in the wet dirt. Tharok and Kethe descended as well, and soon a group some two dozen strong stood ready.

  “Give us as close to half an hour as you can estimate for us to get through the city,” said Kethe. “Then launch your attack. That should be all we need to get to Starkadr’s base.”

  “Very well,” said Ramswold. “The Ascendant be with you.”

  “And the White Gate light your way,” said Kethe. She looked to Tharok, who grunted, and together they led the shamans and warriors into the shanty town, jogging between the swaybacked and leaning buildings until they reached a crack in the wall and disappeared inside.

  “Let’s wait back in Bythos,” said Tiron. “No sense in risking being spotted out here.”

  Shaya translated for Maur, who nodded her affirmation. One by one, the others departed, till Tiron was left atop his black dragon, watching the crack through which Kethe had gone.

  “Find your mother,” he whispered. “Please, Kethe. Find her.”

  Then he patted Draumronin’s neck, and they too disappeared.

  CHAPTER 5

  Kethe

  Kethe ran alongside Tharok, Tiron’s blade in hand. Her fear and exhaustion fell away as the White Song lifted its voice of sublime perfection from the depths of her soul. She felt fleet of foot, light and lethal. The pain of old wounds, abrasions, contusions, sprains and tears faded. She had to consciously restrain herself from pulling ahead of the group, from lengthening her stride into an all-out sprint. Her blade flickered up and down at her side, and she was sure that her newfound strength was due in part to its hallowed powers.