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

by Phil Tucker

  The medusa swayed slowly from side to side, her rattle adding a whispering undertone to her movements. “What is your name?”

  Kethe opened her mouth to answer and then froze. How should she answer? Kethe? Makaria? With a cough she covered her discomfort, and then said, “I am Makaria, Virtue of Happiness, and devout servant of the Ascendant himself.”

  “Are you now?” asked the medusa. “You do not seem sure. Regardless. Lead on, Makaria. Let us enact miracles of our own.”

  COME, said Skandengraur. WE DEPART FOR ABYTHOS.

  The medusa laughed. “I will see you there anon.”

  NO. WE GO NOW.

  Skandengraur moved forward, stepping over the shamans who scattered before him. The medusa reared back, tail rattling in alarm, her hair hissing furiously, but the dragon paid no heed.

  “Do not touch me if you value your lizardine soul,” she hissed.

  Kethe could have sworn she saw amusement on the dragon’s visage. Faster than she could follow, he reached out with a foreclaw and tapped the medusa on the shoulder. Immediately, they disappeared.

  “Mistress!” cried Ilina, struggling weakly in the arms of her followers.

  The kragh shamans bellowed in anger, but Flamska’s growl silenced them.

  COME, MAKARIA, said the dragon. WE SOJOURN TO ABYTHOS. The dragon extended her claw. Kethe reached up and touched its tip.

  The dark fastness of the Bythian cavern fell away to be replaced by sweet afternoon sunlight. They were in the great courtyard of the Abythian citadel, a vast open space the center of which was dominated by the ruined grating over the broad ramp that led below. A large flock of crows cawed furiously as they took to the air, frightened by the arrival of Skandengraur and the medusa.

  Kethe took a deep, shaky breath. The sight of the courtyard, the towering walls, the multitude of corpses and the gray, silent statues brought back an overwhelming amount of emotion. Terror and elation. Loss and grief. Fury and impotence. The silence was harrowing after the madness of battle that had engulfed the citadel the last time she was here.

  The tower tops were ruined; bodies of soldiers hung over the crumbled battlements. A troll’s arm jutted into view between two crenellations. Kethe shivered and resisted the urge to hug herself. Instead, she forced herself to study the courtyard. The battlefield.

  She’d cut off the kragh’s advance from the main gate to the center ramp, and then left her fellow Virtues to drive the enemy back outside. Looking at the statues tightly gathered near the gate, she could see they had been victorious.

  There were thousands of statues. They lined the walls. They stood in aspects of terror as they turned to flee their stony doom. Some still held their blades; others ran empty-handed. Kethe swallowed and stepped up to the closest. A young man, his chin barely bearded. Eyes wide and smooth and unseeing, without hint of iris or pupil. Such detail. She reached up to touch his cool cheek, then dropped her hand.

  “How will this work?” she demanded, turning to the medusa, who had coiled herself up. In the golden sunshine, her body seemed about to incandesce, so mesmerizing and vivid was the coloration of her scales and skin in the sunlight.

  “You give the command,” said the medusa, “and I will turn stone to pliant flesh.”

  Lord Ramswold leaned forward, watching the medusa from athwart Skandengraur’s shoulders. “It’s that simple?”

  “In all of creation, we are unique.” The medusa’s otherworldly voice made Kethe shiver. “Our powers are bequeathed to us from both the Black and the White Gate. We can shuttle our prey from one extreme to the other. With but a glance I can bathe you in the petrifying powers of the White Gate, leaching your body of all vitality. A subtle shift, and with a kiss I can flood your frame with the invigorating forces of the Black.” Her smile revealed perfectly white fangs. “What you call ‘simple’ is a veritable miracle of creation and a testament to our majesty.”

  Lord Ramswold’s laughter was rich with scorn. “Enough with the aggrandizement. Prove it. Return our soldiers to life.”

  Kethe wanted to interject, to warn him not to provoke the medusa, but how could she? She found herself both admiring him for his boldness and fearing for his life.

  “As you command,” Kyrra said mockingly, her bronze lips parting in a smile. “But be warned. The process does not always end well.”

  “What do you mean?” Kethe asked, but it was too late.

  The medusa rose up like a cobra, and though Kethe could not see her face, she saw the effect of her gaze upon the statue closest to her.

  The gray of the stone faded like frost before the sun, and in a moment the knight was running once more, roaring a warning, only to stagger and stop and gaze up at the medusa, transfixed in wonder and horror.

  He was but the first. Everywhere, statues sprang to life in rapid succession, scores at a time, so that in seconds the courtyard once more rang with oaths and commands. Men milled around and called out in confusion only to grow silent with awe and terror at the sight of the dragons and the medusa.

  A gut-wrenching scream filled the air. One of the statues nearest the gate had been toppled onto its side and shattered – and had come back to life, fragmented as it was. Blood spurted powerfully from stumps where arms and legs had broken off, and the youth writhed in shock and agony.

  More gave voice to their death throes. Chaos filled the courtyard as men died or roared for clarification. The medusa swept the walls with her gaze, and everywhere men came back to life. Hundreds became thousands. Kethe felt as if she were being dropped inside a storm. How was she to restore order?

  The question was answered by Ramswold.

  Skandengraur rose on its rear legs, huge wings flapping once, twice, thrice, and let forth a bugling cry that silenced the Abythian army. Men turned and gaped, pale-faced. They lined the walls, they clogged the gate, they clustered into clumps, but all were staring in awe.

  “Men of the Empire!” Ramswold’s voice cut through the ensuing silence. “I am Lord Ramswold of the Order of the Star, master of the Red Keep and devoted follower of the Ascendant. You are freed from your stony bond! We have tamed the medusa, brought her to heel, and forced her to return you to life. Your dark nightmare is ended!”

  Nobody spoke. The medusa’s tail began an ominous rattle, but Ramswold wasn’t finished.

  “I ride Skandengraur, a dragon out of legend, and believe me when I say that its aid is needed! Much has happened since last you drew breath. The kragh captured Aletheia —”

  A cavalcade of groans rippled through the ranks, and Kethe’s heart jumped at the sight of two familiar figures pushing their way to the fore: Akinetos, broad shouldered and massive, and Mixis, lithe and lean as a winter wolf.

  “— but were brought to a standstill in Ennoia!” Ramswold fought to make himself heard. “But, hark! A greater evil has befallen us! Demons have been loosed from the bowels of a forgotten stonecloud, and even now they set their sights on Aletheia. The Ascendant and the kragh warlord have made peace, and together we now —”

  Cries of disbelief and dismay drowned him out. Kethe dry-swallowed, not faulting the men for being stunned and furious. Seized by an impulse, she crouched and then leaped with a cry, soaring up some ten yards to land on a broad ridge that lined one of the towers.

  “By your love for the Ascendant and your hope to see another dawn, silence!” Desperation imbued her voice with such power and anger that it worked; the army fell silent but for discontented rumbles, and thousands of eyes turned toward her and fixed upon her white blade, which she raised high above her head, a burning, visible brand.

  “The Ascendant needs you, men of Ennoia!”

  Her yell was swallowed whole by the great carnivorous silence. Taking a deep breath, she cried out once more.

  “This is your hour of truth! The kragh were but a prelude to our true battle! Never has the Empire been in greater need of her faithful. Her warriors, her brave, her greatest defenders! Lord Ramswold speaks truth. I, Makaria, Virtue of
Happiness, saw the stonecloud fall upon Ennoia. I saw the legions of the demons spill into the air, and I have witnessed the threat they pose to us all!”

  The silence ached. Chest tight, one hand clamped to a stone in the tower wall, she leaned out, sword still raised. “These are perilous times, but this is why the first Ascendant decreed your existence so many centuries ago. This is the threat he foresaw. And now the time has come! Will you rise and fight? Will you swallow your doubts and confusion and trust in your heart and soul? Will you sacrifice all for the men, women, and children of the Empire, for the Ascendant himself?”

  Akinetos lifted his huge hammer. “For the Ascendant!”

  Ramswold lifted his own blade. “The attack may fall upon Aletheia at any moment. There is no time to grieve, to process what has happened. We must march into Bythos, and then on through and into Aletheia! Commanders, organize your men! Form regiments!”

  Again, Skandengraur bugled its cry, and now the men gave answer in the form of a great roar. Limping, supporting each other, striding forth, listening to the barks of their sergeants, the great mass of soldiers set about the business of imposing martial order upon what had been the chaos of a battlefield.

  Kethe stared out over the great courtyard and allowed herself to feel the faintest flicker of relief. They were so many. Nearly five thousand, she knew. Five thousand of the Empire’s greatest soldiers. Knights without number, seasoned infantry, countless archers and arbalests.

  And better yet, she was no longer alone. She released the wall, leaped back down, and landed lightly before the Virtues Akinetos and Mixis.

  “Synesis?” she asked, rising from her crouch.

  Akinetos seemed even larger than she remembered: a massive man, almost as wide as he was tall, his rough features and bald head looking to have been chipped out of granite. Only his formidable strength allowed him to move within his weighty plate armor; the metal looked to be more than an inch thick.

  He looked to Mixis, then shook his head. “She was not by our side when we were... taken.”

  “She must be here somewhere,” said Kethe. “We’ll have to search for her.”

  “Agreed. But first, Makaria…” Akinetos laid a heavy gauntleted hand on her shoulder. It weighed as much as a brick. “Theletos? Ainos? Henosis?”

  “Dead,” she said, and both men flinched as if she had struck them. “Henosis was slain fighting Tharok. Ainos was a traitor. She killed Theletos while he was wounded. But in truth... he didn’t really try to defend himself.”

  Mixis’ eyes narrowed. His white hair was wild, tied in a topknot that spilled down his back in disarray, and tendrils of it flickered around his face like white flames. White stubble covered his raw jawline, and there was a burning intensity to him akin to a wolf’s.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “The black potions.” There was so much she needed to tell them. “Ainos revealed the truth behind their origins. Evil, drawn from tortured Sin Casters by the Fujiwara, who are destroyed as a power. The Minister of Perfection is dead.”

  Both men reeled as if they had been assailed by storm winds.

  Akinetos closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. He squeezed Kethe’s shoulder almost painfully hard, then opened his eyes. “But the Ascendant? He is unharmed?”

  Kethe nodded. “He is with Iskra Kyferin. Who is... his new Grace.”

  Mixis laughed, a bitter, caustic sound. “Iskra Kyferin? His Grace? Your mother?”

  “Too much has changed while we slept,” said Akinetos. “We will have to be briefed as we march.”

  “Yes,” said Kethe. “Let’s find Synesis —”

  “But first, well done, Makaria.” Akinetos took a step back and then bowed low.

  “I — what?” Kethe felt her face burn as Mixis reluctantly stepped back and bowed as well. “What are you doing?”

  Akinetos straightened. “It needs to be said. You bring honor to your name. In you burns the light of the Empire. Well done.”

  Kethe felt tears come to her eyes. “I — thank you. But, please. It all happened so fast. I’ve just tried to do my best —”

  “And it has more than sufficed,” Akinetos said with gravelly certainty. “Now, let us find Synesis.”

  “And...” Mixis looked over at Ramswold, who had dropped from Skandengraur’s shoulders to speak with a large group of knights. “Over there. That’s a dragon, isn’t it?”

  Kethe laughed. “Yes. Ser Tiron rides a third. He’s escorting the Ascendant to Aletheia. Dragons. Demons. The world has gone mad.”

  “Then we’re going to bring back a little sanity,” said Akinetos. “I’ll gather our Consecrated. You two find Synesis.” He cast a weather eye at the medusa. “She’s not going to cause any trouble?”

  “She might,” said Kethe. “But the dragons are here to keep her under control.”

  Akinetos shook his head. “What a time to be alive. Come, it’s time to serve.” That said, he strode off, his armor clanking dolorously.

  “You take this half of the courtyard,” said Mixis. “I’ll take the other. Good luck.” And he ran off, fleet of foot.

  “Right,” said Kethe. She sheathed her blade and ran her hands over her hair, gathered her whirling thoughts and took a deep breath. “Right. This half.”

  She began to jog around the perimeter. Synesis had to be hurt if she’d not presented herself. Amongst the wounded? She scanned the many bodies, both kragh and human, as she ran.

  “Kethe!”

  A familiar voice, but she couldn’t place it. She stopped, turned, and saw a slender youth running toward her, one arm upraised. Blood was smeared across his jaw. His elegant ash-brown hair was pulled back into a knot. He was wielding an exquisite blade which he held down and off to the side.

  “Gray Wind!” One of her Consecrated. It felt like weeks since she’d seen him. She ran to meet him, and he stopped to salute, but she embraced him, pulling him in tight, then stepped back. “You’re wounded?”

  “I — no. I don’t think so. I – I have so many questions. What, by the White Gate, is going on?” Before she could answer, he took control of himself. He stood straighter and pushed his shoulders back. “More importantly, how can I help?”

  “We’re searching for Synesis. Have you seen her?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I saw her fighting the kragh warlord during the battle. They fell from the sky. Over there.”

  Kethe took off at a sprint, Gray Wind at her heels, and moments later they came to a crater in the flagstones. Synesis lay buried in shattered stones at its base. Kethe leaped down to her side, and then hesitated. “Synesis?”

  The young Zoeian Virtue looked like a doll amidst the huge chunks of rock. Her cloud of black hair was matted with blood and dust, and her skin was ashen, but when Kethe touched her cheek, she groaned.

  “She’s alive!” Kethe looked up to Gray Wind, standing at the edge of the crater. “Quick! Fetch Mixis!”

  Kethe turned back to the Virtue of Intelligence. Carefully, biting her lower lip, Kethe began to lever rocks off her body. She didn’t look too badly injured — nothing was obviously broken. Still, she wasn’t waking up. Shoving another large section of stone away, Kethe saw that her side was thickly caked in blood.

  “Damn,” she whispered.

  “Found her?” asked Mixis, appearing at the crater’s edge.

  “Yes,” said Kethe. She moved aside as the other Virtue slid down the rubble to join her. “Somehow, she’s still breathing. But she’s in bad shape.”

  Mixis placed his fingertips at Synesis’ neck. “Her pulse is weak. Erratic. She’s fading. It’s been maybe five minutes since she was hit. Here.” He lifted the flap of a leather satchel at his hip and drew out a thickly wrapped vial of black liquid. Then he paused. “You don’t want me to use it.”

  “No, it’s just that — well. It’s... I guess we need to. I just hate having to need it. Justifying its creation.”

  Mixis held it up to the light. “Made from tortured Si
n Casters, you said? Well, perhaps its callous of me, but at least this way they have some purpose.”

  Kethe bit back her retort. She had thought immediately of Asho, of all he had done for the Empire, all the while not believing in what it stood for.

  Mixis knelt and tipped the potion’s contents between Synesis’ lips. For a moment nothing happened, and then she gagged and swallowed, coughing and choking as she downed the liquid, and her eyelids fluttered.

  “There,” said Mixis. “We got it to her in time. She won’t wake yet, but soon.” Carefully, he pried Synesis’ frail body from the rubble and lifted her into his arms. “The Ascendant be praised. Ready?”

  Kethe nodded. Her mood had turned sour, but there was no explaining that to Mixis. His gaze was flat and unfriendly already. Did he still hate her for killing the previous Makaria?

  Not waiting, Kethe leaped out of the crater. The army was already falling into rough ranks, groups assembling beneath their lords’ war banners, voices yelling over each other as commanders sought to impose order. It would take a while yet to march everyone out, but it was definitely happening.

  Maur was sitting atop Flamska, who was perched high above on one of the ruined towers. Countless soldiers cast nervous glances in her direction. It couldn’t be easy for them to accept a kragh riding such a legendary beast, not after what they had seen Tharok do with his wyverns.

  Kethe jogged back toward Ramswold, who was surrounded by a growing group of knights. The siege of Abythos felt to her like it had taken place weeks ago, but to all these men, it had only ended a few minutes ago. No wonder so many of them looked bewildered and shocked.

  “Virtue Makaria,” Lord Ramswold said, bowing low.

  Following his example, the gathered knights did the same. There were some thirty of them, Kethe guessed, and from their insignia and tabards, they came from across the breadth of Ennoia. She didn’t recognize any faces, but the fervent gleam in their eyes was uniform.

  “Are we ready to go?” she asked. “The attack on Aletheia may have begun.”

  “Unlikely,” Ramswold said gravely. “Ser Tiron would have summoned us if it had. But your haste is wise. You desire immediate transport?”