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

by Phil Tucker

  “No,” said the knight, spots of color appearing on his cheeks. “Not directly. But it is curious, is it not, that an unnatural defense of the city preceded that city’s destruction?”

  There were murmurs of assent all around.

  Tiron nodded and looked away, then spun and slammed his fist into the man’s face. He felt bone break, and the man crashed to the ground, his armor causing a mighty clatter.

  “Ser Tiron!” Ramswold cried out, and numerous knights moved forward, dropping their hands to their blades but stopping short of drawing their swords.

  “Listen here,” said Tiron, his voice a low rasp. “The next man who slanders Asho will deal with more than my fist. I don’t claim to understand Ascendancy – more so now than ever before – but I know Asho’s a good man. I’ll not hear another word spoken against him. Am I clear?”

  “You – you knave,” said the fallen knight, struggling against the weight of his armor to sit up. “You strike me by surprise? I’ll challenge you to –”

  Tiron placed his boot on the man’s chest and shoved him back down. “Shut it.”

  “Let Ser Bandolin up,” Ramswold growled. “That is not how a true knight behaves.”

  “Fine. But you should know me by now, Ramswold. I’m not and may not ever be a ‘true knight’.” Tiron stepped back. “I’ll be a member of your Order, and gladly. But I’ll not countenance that kind of idiocy.”

  “Ser Ramswold,” said Ser Bandolin. “Support me in this. Where do you think the victims of Asho’s impiety have gone? Into the hands of the Ascendant, where they will reside in bliss until they are reborn as Noussians.” He smiled at Tiron, revealing teeth that were stained crimson. “The only ones who feel hardship at their passing are we survivors. They have Ascended.”

  “Right, right,” Tiron said, nodding and scratching at his ear. “Of course. How could I have forgotten? Ascendancy.” He looked sidelong at Ramswold. “You agree with him, of course?”

  “I do,” said Ramswold. “You know that. Though Ser Bandolin is proving himself a proper ass for insisting on this point in such an offensive manner.”

  “Look,” said Tiron. Then he stopped. What did he want to say? All around him were Ennoian knights, men who took pride in their station in Ascendancy, who identified with their religious role. Who agreed, fundamentally, with everything Ser Bandolin had said. “I’m – I don’t think I go for that line of thinking any more. It doesn’t feel right, not after all I’ve seen, all I’ve experienced. If you want to continue in that vein, blindly following Ascendancy after the world has shown you other truths, well, go ahead. But I can’t.”

  “You are an Ennoian,” Ramswold argued. “You are a knight because of Ascendancy. We all are. We wield these swords for holy reasons. How can you gainsay that?”

  “It’s my mistake for overlooking all this when I swore to join the Order of the Star,” Tiron said heavily. “My mistake. I focused on your bravery, your idealism, your hope.”

  “It’s still there,” said Ramswold. “You don’t need to turn from all that. But you must also accept the truths behind what it means to be an Ennoian.”

  Tiron stared at the young man, sadness growing with him. “My apologies. My first vow was justice for all. Not the justice of Ascendancy, but a justice that…” He groped for the right words. “A justice that allows people like Asho to be judged by their actions and not their birth.”

  The reactions around him were stark; a number of knights actually hissed in surprise and displeasure.

  “Yes, it’s not a very righteous sentiment. But what I’ve seen, what I’ve experienced – I can’t blindly follow the teachings of Ascendancy any more. So, no. I think I have to turn away. I respect your valor and your hope. But if being a member of the Order of the Star means turning my back on the likes of Ser Asho, then I can only say one thing.” He looked around, making sure to meet as many eyes as possible. “And that’s hell, no.”

  “Tiron, we need you,” said Ramswold. “The Empire needs you. Don’t turn away.”

  “The Ascendant will judge his soul when he dies,” Ser Bandolin said as two others hauled him to his feet. “And while I admit to being surprised by the depth of his impiety —”

  Tiron lunged at him as if to strike once more. Ser Bandolin let out a sharp cry, staggered back, tripped, and crashed back down to the ground.

  “Listen, all of you,” Tiron said, turning to regard the crowd. “If you have to be an Ennoian knight, you may as well listen to Ramswold. I may not agree with him on Ascendancy, but I count him a good friend and am honored to have fought at his side. He’s a good man, and he’ll steer you straight. But get yourself lances and crossbows. You’ll not be getting close enough to the demons to hack at them with your swords —”

  TIRON. The voice echoed within his mind as if Draumronin were but yards away and not swooping around the distant base of Aletheia. A DEMON APPROACHES.

  “Here we go,” Tiron said as anticipation pumped fire into his veins. “The battle’s about to begin. The demons are here. If you’ve got any prayers to make, you’d best get to them.”

  The knights cried out in surprise, and most of them drew their blades. The ringing hiss of drawn steel sounded through the air.

  “Skandengraur reports that it’s but one demon,” said Ramswold, accompanying Tiron to the courtyard’s edge. They both placed their hands on the marble wall and gazed down into the clouds. “Why just one? Where is it?”

  “Are you ready for me?” asked Tiron.

  “I — what?” Ramswold looked at him in confusion as Tiron hopped up onto the wall.

  “Not talking to you,” Tiron said, and leaped.

  His belly pressed up against his diaphragm and the wind howled past him as he fell down Aletheia’s flank. The golden clouds were above and below, and everything in that moment was breathtakingly beautiful. Time slowed, and Tiron extended his arms and legs, feeling the wind bunch beneath him like a vast cushion into which he was driven like a blade.

  Then Draumronin was there, a vast blackness with its wings outstretched and its tail a sinuous serpent, falling just beneath Tiron as it furled its wings, slowing just enough that Tiron found himself lowering onto the dragon’s back with turbulence buffeting him as slipstreams poured up around the dragon’s body. With a cry, Tiron grabbed hold of Draumronin’s horn, brought his legs down, and clamped them around the dragon’s broad neck.

  Sheer elation suffused him. He felt invincible as Draumronin continued its dive, banking slightly to the left so that it was hugging Aletheia’s curvature, knifing through clouds that brushed past Tiron and left him wet from a thousand dewdrops.

  “Only one?” yelled Tiron. “Why?”

  A SCOUT, said Draumronin. ALETHEIA’S CONSTANT MOVEMENT MUST HAVE PREVENTED THEM FROM TELEPORTING HERE DIRECTLY. THEY HAD TO FIND IT THROUGH FLIGHT. THOUSANDS OF DEMONS MUST HAVE BEEN SCOURING THE SKIES IN EVERY DIRECTION, SEARCHING FOR US.

  “And now one’s found us,” said Tiron, not bothering to shout. Then, experimentally, he simply thought, Is it still here?

  IT IS, said Draumronin. I NOTICED IT FIRST. IT APPROACHES, OBLIVIOUS. A MINOR DEMON.

  And if we kill it?

  WE BUY OURSELVES MORE TIME.

  Tiron nodded. Perfect.

  HOLD TIGHT, said Draumronin, and this time the dragon closed its wings altogether so it became a draconian lance, punching with terrible speed into the thick clouds below.

  Tiron narrowed his eyes, tears leaking out of their corners, and held tight to the horn as he became weightless and lifted off Draumronin’s back. Down they flew like a hawk descending upon prey, and a second later they emerged from the clouds into a gloomy evening sky. An endless forest extended in every direction below them, and a sole demon was winging its way in desultory fashion over the canopy.

  As soon as they saw the demon, Draumronin slipped through space and appeared right above it, crossing the few hundred yards between them in the blink of an eye.

  The demon looke
d up, screeched, and vanished just before Draumronin’s claws sheared through where its body had been.

  The dragon roared its frustration, opening its wings at the last moment so that it pulled up and soared over the treetops, flying so fast that the forest blurred beneath them.

  IT HAS REPORTED OUR ATTACK, said Draumronin. ITS RETURN WILL BE IMMINENT.

  We had to try, said Tiron. Right?

  YES. IT WOULD HAVE DISCOVERED ALETHEIA IF WE HAD HELD BACK.

  At least this confirms that they can’t just teleport into Aletheia itself, thought Tiron. They’re going to have to fight their way into the demon chamber.

  CORRECT, said Draumronin, and then the world shifted and they were flying over the Ascendant’s Palace. Flamska was there with Skandengraur, Maur and Ramswold mounted on their napes, and Draumronin joined them in their circling, their shadows rippling over the encampment in the great square and the roof of the palace.

  Can you land over there? We need a minute or two to get that saddle on you. Otherwise, I’ll be as useful as a duck’s arse in a…

  They appeared right where Tiron was pointing, surrounded by tents. Draumronin’s legs sagged as they took his weight, and the dragon’s wings closed over his back. Many tents were blown over by the sudden rush of wind caused by their arrival, and numerous screams sounded, but Tiron paid them no mind.

  “Ernka!” he roared, sliding down Draumronin’s side and landing heavily. “Get that saddle out here! Now!”

  Ernka was quick on her feet. She gaped for only a second before yelling out orders of her own, and in a matter of seconds her assistants were unbuckling and lifting up the saddle from the huge barrel.

  “Jemy! Get those crossbows over here! Ernyk, the lances! The Black Gate take you, move!”

  Draumronin lowered itself so that its neck lay along the ground, closed its eyes and let out a deep sigh as the assistants and Ernko hauled the saddle over and heaved it onto the base of the dragon’s neck.

  “I need more time,” Ernka said, catching a broad strap that was thrown over Draumronin’s neck. “This is shoddy work. Shoddy! Damn, damn, damn!”

  “No time,” said Tiron. A youth pushed over a wheelbarrow loaded with heavy crossbows, and Tiron took one up, along with the windlass. “They’re upon us. When you’re done here, get below. You hear me? It’ll be too dangerous out in the open.”

  Tiron and the youth set to loading the crossbows, winching the strings back and locking them before hanging them from cunning hooks set on the saddle’s side. It took Tiron a moment to figure out the system, and Ernka snatched the crossbow out of his hand.

  “Here, see? Hook it there, and then shove the stock into this loop. That should hold it in place no matter which way you’re firing. To free it, just grab by the bow and haul it up. The bolt’s locked in place by this thong. Tamp the bolt down with your thumb, tear the thong off, then shoot the damn thing into a demon’s crotch. Understood?”

  “Yes,” Tiron said, moving to load the next one. “Good.”

  Skandengraur roared and then disappeared. Flamska was gone a second later.

  “Move!” bellowed Tiron. “Get this done!”

  A dozen lances in two leather buckets were hitched to the back of the saddle, points down. Tiron hung his third crossbow, then trotted over to inspect them. Two yards’ worth of each lance emerged from the tops of the bucket-quivers, handles topward, and when he peered into the bucket, he saw leather and canvas bottoms through which the lances had been shoved.

  He gripped a lance and gave it a tug. It slid free with difficulty.

  “Best I could do on short notice,” Ernka said, feverishly working on a strap. “The leather base will hug the lances tight. Keep ‘em from falling out if you fly upside down. Should, at any rate. You’ll have to haul ‘em out, though, when you need ‘em.”

  “Good enough,” said Tiron. His heart was hammering. “Time’s up.”

  Slats had been lashed to the side of the saddle, forming a ladder of sorts, up which Tiron climbed. He swung his leg over the cantle and slid his feet into the stirrups.

  “How are they?” Ernka yelled.

  Tiron stood, sat, looked down at each stirrup and nodded. “Damned perfect. If we survive this, Ernka, I’ll see you made a knight.”

  Two assistants had climbed up alongside Tiron to strap the lance buckets in place, their haste and the urgency of the situation overcoming their fear of Draumronin.

  “Done!” cried the first, leaping down.

  “Done!” cried the second, doing the same.

  Tiron looked about him. Six crossbows were lashed just below him, bolts loaded and pointing down. He reached over his shoulder and grabbed a lance by its handle, then drew it hand over hand till it came free. He swung it around, couched it under his arm, and nodded.

  “Good work. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Go kill ‘em,” said Ernka from below. “Kill ‘em all.”

  “It’s what I do,” said Tiron. Ready?

  The tents and the plaza and the palace disappeared, and suddenly they were falling through the sky again, Draumronin’s wings snapping out, the wind in Tiron’s face, his stomach clenching and his thighs squeezing the saddle.

  Aletheia was right behind them. The clouds all around were darkening to burgundy and crimson, a sky of blood against which a thousand demons were hovering, black as the motes that swam in your eyes when you were near choked to death.

  Flamska and Maur flew to his left, Skandengraur and Ramswold to his right. The three of them flared their wings, arresting their flight, then beat them powerfully, hovering in place.

  Maur, Tiron saw, had a truly massive bow in one hand, clothyard arrows nearly a yard long in the other. Ramswold was holding his blade out to one side, a white lance with the triangle of the Ascendant rippling from a pennant at its tip.

  “Three against a thousand!” yelled Tiron. “You bastards ready?”

  Maur set her arrow to the string and with a grunt drew it back. Even from where he was sitting, even over the deep swooshes of the dragons’ wings, Tiron could hear the bow creak. Muscles writhed along her arm, but her face remained impassive as she brought the black fletching to her cheek. Tiron doubted even Elon the smith could have drawn that bow.

  “For the Order of the Star!” called Ramswold. “For the Ascendant. For the Empire!”

  “For Iskra,” Tiron said quietly. “For all the damned and the innocent.”

  Then, despite it all, despite everything that had happened, the lessons learned, the wisdom gained, he rose in his stirrups and raised his lance on high. “For the glory of the Black fucking Wolves! For death! For ruin!”

  Draumronin roared, changed its angle, and powered forward, flying into the oncoming swarm. Tiron grinned into the wind and crouched down, lance held at the ready a few yards from the dragon’s head. An arrow sped past him, arching high in the air, a furious black dart that was buffeted and pulled by the wind. Tiron watched it peak, level out, and then start to fall. Superstition took him by the throat. If it killed a demon, this battle was theirs.

  The arrow sped down at the horde. There were so many demons that aiming wasn’t necessary. Tiron leaned over, watching the arrow fall. It passed between two demons and was gone. Had it hit something behind them? He couldn’t tell.

  “Damn it,” he whispered, centering himself once more. Where’s the ur-destraas?

  THERE, said Draumronin, snaking its head briefly before streamlining once more.

  Tiron looked and saw it, and shivers ran down his spine. It was flying forward without wings, buried deep in the heart of the horde, its chest raging with flames that spat and lashed through its ribs. It seemed content for now to drift forward with the others.

  Tiron felt a shaky sense of relief. Good. They’d tackle it when they had to.

  READY? asked Draumronin.

  No, thought Tiron. But let’s get it over with, anyway.

  Draumronin slipped through space, and they burst into existence above the dem
ons, heading straight down at them. Those directly below them shrieked and disappeared, a wave of teleportations that preceded them like a zone of evaporation before an approaching flame. Tiron was about to call out his frustration when Draumronin slipped through space once more, and this time they were flying straight up, attacking the horde from below.

  The demons scattered, parting before them anew until they revealed a massive, hog-headed monstrosity. It bellowed a challenge even as Draumronin’s ascent began to lose momentum, then hurled itself forward and disappeared from view a moment later.

  Draumronin slipped sideways ten yards and wheeled around as the hog demon burst through where the dragon had just been. Tiron swung his lance out wide but missed the demon by a matter of yards; Draumronin exhaled an eye-searing plume of fire that scorched the side of the demon, which promptly disappeared.

  They slipped away and appeared in the very heart of the horde. Draumronin raked its head from one side to the other, spilling flame through the air and incinerating dozens of demons before it slipped away again.

  They appeared high above the horde, and again they dove, building up speed only to slip away and appear on the horde’s flank, slashing through it with punishing velocity. Three hog demons appeared, blinking into existence just above Draumronin and falling with such speed that Tiron could only swivel his lance up and yell in terror and surprise.

  The closest demon slammed onto his lance. Its point drove deep into the demon’s chest but didn’t shatter. Instead, the weight of the demon drove its backside straight down into the saddle, which knocked Draumronin down several yards as the demon impaled itself even deeper on the shaft.

  Draumronin slipped, appeared, slipped again, but the hog demon followed them, tethered, perhaps, by the connection afforded by the lance. Tiron yelled and hurled the lance away as if he’d been scalded, but this time Draumronin simply allowed itself to fall, rolling over so that it presented its claws to the sky and the demons.

  Tiron barely had the time and presence of mind to untether himself and grab at the stocks of two crossbows before he fell from the saddle. A stirrup hauled him through the air for a few seconds before he slipped free.