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

by Phil Tucker

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. I mean to force the Fujiwaras to tell me.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Nobody knows. A minute? An hour? A day? I can’t divine what Zephyr is doing. Her sanity was tenuous when I met her. Now, she could be reveling in her power. Could be sleeping. Could be about to engulf Aletheia with demons. Which is why I will go to Haugabrjótr immediately after leaving your side.”

  “You said your demons are gone. How are you returning there?”

  “A Portal exists in the remains of the Fujiwara estate. I know the command word to open it.”

  Asho closed his eyes, tried to stop the world from spinning, and with immense effort swiveled his legs over the side of the bed.

  “What are you doing?” asked Audsley.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “But you can barely — are you mad? We would need a bier to carry you on!”

  “Then, fetch one,” growled Asho. “I’m not going to lie here in the dark. I’m coming with you.”

  “But, why? How can you help us? You will only imperil yourself.”

  “You owe me, Audsley.” Asho’s voice was more growl than anything else. “If I say I’m coming, I’m coming.”

  Audsley opened and closed his mouth several times, then his shoulders slumped. “Yes. Of course. But may I ask why?”

  “The Sin Casters,” said Asho. “I’m one of them. We’re going to free them, correct?”

  “Why — yes, I suppose we are. You mean to be their guide?”

  “Something like that.” Good, Asho thought. If Audsley believed that, it would suffice. “Now, find my sword. My boots. My damn clothing. And hurry.”

  “Yes, Asho.” Audsley stood, clutching Aedelbert to his chest. “Shall I tell Iskra...?”

  “Iskra?” Asho thought it over. “No. There’s no need to tell anybody. I don’t want them forcing me to stay and heal. Let them think I’m down here resting.” He saw Audsley hesitate and said sharply, “You owe me, Audsley. More than any other. You used me and left me to die.”

  “I — all right. I won’t tell a soul. Will you be needing help to walk...?”

  Asho gripped the bed frame. He wanted to stand, but he knew he would fail, would most likely collapse to the stone floor and lie there dry-heaving like a fool. “Yes. No bier. Just — just a shoulder to lean on.”

  “Very well. I’ll send someone with your things. Um. Immediately.”

  Asho nodded, then let his head hang and closed his eyes. His pulse was pounding in his head. He’d never felt so wretched. The very idea of walking made him want to groan. But he had no choice.

  A few minutes later, the door opened again and a massive bear of a man bent his head so he could step inside. Asho tried to rise and only barely managed to do so, swaying on knees that he felt might fold at any moment.

  “Ser Asho,” the man rumbled in a Hrething accent. “Lady Iskra told me to do as Magister Audsley commands. He told me to bring your things. I’m Tóki.”

  “Tóki,” said Asho. He accepted his clothing gratefully and sank back down on the bed. “Thank you. I fought with Kolgrímr back at Mythgræfen.”

  “I heard. Kolgrímr was a good man. He would have made a fine chief, had he lived.”

  The candlelight painted Tóki in a warm, golden glow, but even so, the man was intimidating: his thick beard hung nearly to his belt, his eyes glittered over his hooked nose, and his hands were like gnarled roots, with prominent knuckles and fingers that looked like they could crush bone.

  Asho set to getting dressed. “Do you lead them now?”

  “Yes.” The Hrething cast around, taking stock of the room. “For now. I still want only to return to my farm, but this war demands that all men fight. When it’s is over, I will return to my family. Having others look to me for answers is irritating and tiring, both.”

  Asho smirked and pulled on his boot. The exertion left him dizzy, and he nearly toppled over, but Tóki made no move to assist. Grateful, Asho picked up his other boot. “And you serve Iskra still?”

  “Yes, though these days, I don’t know what to call her. Lady Kyferin? Empress? Your Grace?”

  “Your Grace?”

  “Aye,” Tóki said, amused. “You’ve not heard. She serves the Ascendant now as his Minister of War. Ferocious, she is. It’s an honor to serve her.”

  “As his Minister...?” Asho sat as if he’d been poleaxed. “How?”

  Tóki shrugged. “The old one died. I think they were running out of suitable candidates. She’s done a good enough job so far.”

  Asho looked down at his boot. The Ascendant’s Grace. What did that mean for their plans to reform the Empire, to free the Bythians, to undo the injustice that was built into the very system she now served? Was she the enemy now? Or would she be, if they ever won this war?

  In silence, Asho finished getting dressed, then buckled on the new blade that Tóki had brought him, a castle-forged sword of good length and balance.

  “Here,” said Tóki, extending his hand. “You look as weak as a child. A very sick child.”

  “Thanks,” said Asho, and he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “Audsley said we’re going into a stonecloud filled with demon-possessed bastards. How do you figure your Hrethings can fight them?”

  “We can’t,” said Tóki. “But we’re not aiming to fight, apparently. Audsley’s going to reason with them.”

  “Reason with the Fujiwaras,” said Asho.

  “Aye. With the world gone mad, what’s a little more insanity? The Virtues and the Consecrated will be needed here in Aletheia for when the demons attack, and nobody’s about to lend us a dragon to help with the magister’s mission.”

  “No,” chuckled Asho, “I don’t expect they will. All right, let’s go.”

  “Grab my belt, then. It’s how we lead drunks back home. If you fall, try not to hit your forehead on my heels.”

  Asho swallowed his gorge and did as he was bid. The Hrething led him out the door and into a passageway. Elegant and understated, it was cut through pale stone, and the floor was carved with a flood of interlacing geometric lines of jade green and rose.

  “Lucky for you, we’re not far from the Portal,” said Tóki. “Ten-minute walk.”

  “Great,” said Asho. His tongue felt thick as his mouth flooded with sour saliva. “Just great.”

  Those ten minutes felt as if they lasted two hours. Asho marched with grim determination behind the Hrething, his head lowered, holding on to the man’s belt as if it were his only lifeline in this world. The walls blurred, and several times he gagged, hitching his shoulders and causing Tóki to pause and give him a warning glare.

  Finally, they emerged into the late afternoon sunlight. There was a hint of glorious cloudscapes, but Asho couldn’t give a damn about their beauty. He trudged along, holding tight, till they were walking amongst charred ruins.

  “Here we go,” said Tóki. “Right over there. Come on.”

  Asho looked up and saw Audsley, dressed in a black robe, standing amidst a dozen Hrething warriors. The men all had the look of the mountains to them, from their furred vests and leather leggings to their full beards and grim expressions. They bore knightly weapons, however: the loot Iskra had distributed amongst them from Ser Kitan Laur’s invading force, so many moons ago.

  “Welcome, Ser Asho. I’m glad you’re here. It would seem that we’re all gathered. Very good, very good. Ahem.” Audsley linked his hands behind his back, and Aedelbert curled up on his shoulder. “We’re going into a very dangerous locale, as you all well know already. This, ah, stonecloud is the secret home of the Empire’s second greatest enemy. Or is it third? It’s hard to rank our foes during these awful days. The Fujiwara clan! Once the most select members of the Aletheian government, they’re now twice as dangerous for having been exposed and fallen low. I imagine they must be in some state of disarray, with the death of their Minister and their ejection from Aletheia, but, still, we must be
careful. The most powerful amongst them can throw black flame from their hands, fly, and perhaps even teleport.”

  “Bloody hell,” muttered one of the Hrethings, a tall, wiry old man with a wicked scar curving across his temple and down along the line of his jaw.

  “Yes, quite,” said Audsley. “But we’re going in to negotiate, not to fight. In truth, I don’t think the Ascendant, Lady Iskra, or anyone else has much hope of our wresting any advantage from this venture, but I absolutely believe we must try. If we can convince them to take us to Erenthil, we’ll stand a chance of gaining access to unparalleled knowledge. As such, please do not respond to provocation. We may hear and see things that will harrow the soul, but we cannot allow that to degenerate into combat.”

  Audsley paused to wipe sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “I may also be forced to say rather, ah, unsavory things to get them to work with us. Please believe me when I tell you that this will all be an act. Since I was recently amongst them, I might be able to parlay that acquaintance to our advantage. Very well?”

  “Fair enough,” said Tóki. “But if I make the call to fight our way out, I won’t be looking to you for permission.”

  “Ah, well, I would – no, no, understood,” said Audsley. “Understood.”

  “I was there, you know,” said Tóki. “At Laur Castle. I saw you incinerate hundreds with your demon fire. I know what you’re capable of, evil as it might be. It’s the Fujiwaras who should be worried.”

  Audsley paled. “I’ve, um, lost those abilities, the Ascendant be praised. I’m currently as lethal, as, well, an overfed kitten.” He paused, his brow lowering as he considered his own metaphor, then waved a hand. “What I mean to say is, you shouldn’t count on my throwing any fire around. Understood?”

  “Ah,” said Tóki. “Bollocks. There goes my ploughing confidence.”

  “Again,” said Audsley. “We’re going in to talk. Not cut off people’s heads. Am I clear?”

  There were grunts all around, but Asho could feel their unease. Not that he blamed them.

  “Very well,” said Audsley.

  He took a deep breath and turned to a freestanding arch of charred blocks. Asho saw that numerous footprints emerged from one side of the arch, but none led up to the other.

  Audsley took Aedelbert in his arms, cleared his throat, then spoke a harsh, dissonant series of sounds that immediately caused black waters to swirl within the archway, choppy and fierce, like storm-whipped waves. Audsley pushed back his shoulders, kissed the top of Aedelbert’s head, then stepped forward and disappeared.

  “I hate these things,” said Tóki. “All right. Grab my belt, Ser Asho. We’re going in next.”

  Asho wanted to draw his blade. Wanted to draw on his magic. Wanted to go into the stonecloud armed with furious power, death crackling all around him. But it was all he could do to not vomit as he stumbled after Tóki, who led him up to the demon Portal and then into the dread Haugabrjótr beyond.

  CHAPTER 15

  Tiron

  The wind was a constant roar past Tiron’s ears. He hunched low over the saddle horn, gripping a rawhide loop with one hand and holding a lance loosely in the other so that it streamed behind him.

  Draumronin cut through the air with ponderous, powerful beats of its wings. Flight on dragonback was not a smooth forward motion, but rather a series of rises followed by gliding descent. Each time, Tiron was just starting to get used to the way his stomach clenched when the next downbeat caught them and thrust them forward once more. He was starting to learn how to lean back in the makeshift saddle as they fell, then flex his thighs and rise up, crouched, into the ascent.

  A lifetime spent atop destriers and a few days riding mountain goats had prepared him to some degree for this experience; his legs were powerful and capable of gripping a saddle’s sides for hours on end. But the lack of stirrups made it hard to feel fully in control, and the saddle kept listing off to the side with each downstroke, only to be shifted back into place by the dragon’s massive shoulder muscles as they contracted and lifted the wings.

  Aletheia slid past on their right. Evening light gilded its countless serried levels of balconies, walkways, colonnaded avenues and windows in a buttery yellow light that was darkening to burnished gold. The stonecloud fairly glowed, a testament to the glories of a past age. The sky was clear; Tiron had but to glance down to see the land far below, shrunk to a startling miniature so that the forest over which they were flying looked more like an expanse of dark moss than anything else. Mountains rose to the north, their flanks cold with snow, while to the south the forest gave way to rolling foothills.

  Tiron had no idea where they were. Some part of Ennoia? He’d tried to place their location for a few minutes and had given up. It didn’t matter.

  With a grunt, he swung the lance up and around, timing the movement so the lance crossed over the dragon’s wing during a downbeat. He grasped it under his arm, elbow pinned to his side, and angled it down alongside Draumronin’s neck. It was the longest lance he’d been able to find, fourteen feet of tapering ash tipped with a spearhead of glimmering steel. The wind pulled at it, wore at his ability to hold it steady.

  “Have you ever done this before?” he yelled to the dragon. “Flown with a warrior and a lance?”

  YES, rumbled the dragon, its voice loud enough that it didn’t need to turn its head. A LONG TIME AGO.

  “And your previous rider — he was able to wield a lance? Make it count in battle?”

  YES, said Draumronin. HE WIELDED THE LANCE OF ICE, DRAWN FROM THE HEART OF GLAMARING.

  “Oh,” Tiron said, looking with dissatisfaction at his own weapon. “Any chance that’s still lying around somewhere?”

  NO. IT WAS DESTROYED BY KRONVANDAR’S FLAME DURING THE WAR OF PERDITION.

  “War of Perdition?” He’d never heard of it, or of Kronvandar, whoever that might be. He leaned back in the saddle as they fell, listing to the left. Crossbows, perhaps. A dozen of them, loaded and strapped alongside the saddle.

  The sky was clear of demons. When they arrived, Tiron had half-expected to have to launch into battle immediately, but their enemy remained absent, and the sky was empty. Tiron had subsided into a state of troubled wariness. Had Zephyr’s warning been a ruse? Was she directing her forces elsewhere? Twice, he’d come close to suggesting that Draumronin take him back to Starkadr, a scouting mission of sorts, but the risk was too high.

  “I need to work on this saddle,” he called out. “Mind dropping me off?”

  AS YOU WISH, said Draumronin, and suddenly they were a dozen yards above the great plaza in front of the Ascendant’s palace. People yelled in alarm, grabbing tent poles or pinning down other belongings as dragon and rider descended. Gusts of wind tore through the large camp that had been pitched outside the holy walls, and there they alighted.

  “Thank you,” said Tiron.

  Frustration had him by the throat. How could he increase his utility in battle? He reached down, unbuckled the straps that held him in place, then slid down Draumronin’s extended wing to the ground, ignoring the stares. He passed under the dragon’s neck, undid another clasp, then hauled the saddle down, stepping aside as the harness and tack crashed to the ground.

  I SHALL RETURN TO MY VIGIL, said Draumronin. IF YOU NEED ME, CALL. I WILL COME.

  “Yeah,” Tiron said, sorting the straps out. “Will do. Thanks.”

  And with that, the dragon simply disappeared.

  Tiron hauled the massive saddle up onto his shoulder and marched through the crowd, ignoring everyone until he reached the large tent where Ernka had set up her tools and tables.

  “How did it fly?” asked the old woman, rising from her seat at her workstation.

  “Listed way to one side on each downbeat,” said Tiron.

  It was hard not to grouse. He lowered the saddle onto the huge wine barrel that had been dug out of the Ascendant’s cellar, grunting as he shoved it into place, and then set to tugging the straps free and layering th
em correctly. Ernka moved to the far side and did the same.

  “The breast collar was fine,” said Tiron. “Looked just about right. But the cinch wasn’t doing its job.”

  “It can’t, can it?” Ernka said evenly, moving to the front of the barrel to eye the tack. “There’s a pair of huge wings right under it. Got to go around them.”

  “Aye,” Tiron said, moving to stand next to her. “And stirrups, by the Black Gate. I need them tight and high. I’m not going back up without them.”

  “Fair enough.” Ernka twisted her iron-gray braid about one fist. Her other arm was crossed over her belly. “We’re going to need the back cinch after all. Maybe join them both under the wings? That’ll stop the saddle from pitching forward too if Draumronin has to bank suddenly. Unless you think it’d take a cinch around the tail?”

  “Damned if I know,” said Tiron. “We’d need about fifteen yards of leather to get back there. No, let’s loop it around the shoulders. And stirrups.”

  “So you said.” Ernka looked at him sidelong. “What else is on your mind?”

  “Loops. I want to hang crossbows on each side. Six of ‘em. Within arm’s reach. And a way to secure a dozen lances. Some kind of large, modified quiver.”

  “And you need them yesterday,” Ernka said calmly.

  “No, not yesterday. Last week.” Tiron rubbed his face with both hands, then dropped them with a sigh. “Apologies. I’m a little tense.”

  “I don’t see why,” Ernka said, then stepped up to the breast collar and inspected where the upper edge had been badly worn by chafing on scales. “You’re trying to ride a dragon into battle with a demon horde to save the Empire. Nothing stressful about that.”

  Tiron chuckled darkly. “All in a day’s work. Thank you, Ernka. Think you can get it done?”

  “Mayhaps.” Ernka nodded to two other massive barrels with identical saddles sitting atop them. A half-dozen men and women were standing by, watching anxiously. “We’ve a good team, though I can’t promise much in the way of tooling. You’ll have to settle for flying on plain leather.”