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

by Phil Tucker

  He was airborne and falling, spinning, crossbows whipping around him in mad cartwheels. The urge to scream, to panic, was overwhelming. Instead, Tiron closed his eyes, straightened his legs, and extended his arms. He rode the wind, not knowing what he was doing, but guided by an impulse that laughed at his terror and forced him to relax.

  His spinning slowed, then stopped, and he opened his eyes. He was falling only a short distance from where the dragon was fighting the hog-demon. Aletheia was whipping past them just beyond. Draumronin was gouging huge furrows into the demon’s sides with its claws, but the demon had it by the neck just below the jaw and was keeping the dragon’s maw pointed out to the side and away.

  Tiron let go of one of the crossbows. It immediately began to flip through the air alongside him, rising up and away. He focused on the other one: tamped his thumb on the bolt, tore the thong off, and then angled himself so he slid through the air toward the raging duo.

  He flew in close, raised the crossbow with both hands, and fired. Had the demon not been as broad as a barn, he’d have missed. But it was, and his bolt punched into the demon’s shoulder, burying itself a foot deep into its muscle.

  Tiron released the crossbow, looked up, saw where the other was spinning, and opened his arms and legs, catching as much wind as he could. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the crossbow, straining, extending himself as far as he could — and grabbed it by the bow.

  He felt a flare of victory.

  The last of Aletheia rushed up past him, and then it was gone. Dark clouds were rising to meet him. Tiron closed his arms and pressed his legs together, felt the resistance vanish, and dove down ever faster, aiming as best he could toward the titanic duel below.

  Don’t slip away, thought Tiron. Hold!

  The hog demon’s grip on the dragon’s neck was tight, and it raised its other hand, talons gleaming, ready to swipe them through Draumronin’s throat. The dragon had eviscerated the demon, but it didn’t seem to care.

  Down swooped Tiron, and at the last he opened his arms and legs again, arresting his descent just enough that he was able to swing his legs down and around to slam them into the demon’s shoulders. He sank into a crouch with such force that he bounced right back up. His focus, however, was complete: thumb on quarrel, leather thong off. He aimed and jerked his thumb off just before he pulled the trigger.

  The bolt slammed into the back of the demon’s head, disappeared inside, and burst out the front in a welter of blood and bone.

  The demon’s body relaxed, and Draumronin pushed it away. Tiron let out a roar of primal, savage elation. He heard Draumronin chuckle deep within his mind, then the dragon let loose its own roar, turned over, and drifted up on open wings so that Tiron could land in the saddle.

  A second later, they plunged into the clouds, and everything became gray and featureless.

  ONE DEAD, said Draumronin.

  Nine hundred and ninety-nine to go.

  READY?

  Tiron reached over his shoulder and drew a lance, then a second one. He couched each under an arm and nodded. Ready. Let’s do this.

  CHAPTER 23

  Audsley

  The interior of the cottage was homey and appealing. Since it had no interior walls, Audsley could see at a glance the large framed bed in one corner, the small kitchen in another, a circular table on which numerous books and scrolls were piled alongside empty plates and cups, as well as an exceedingly inviting armchair placed before a dead fireplace. The walls were hidden behind bookcases from which countless tomes begged to be examined; their spines were interspaced with objects both wondrous and curious. A heavy, faded rug covered the stone floor, and nets hung from the rafters holding onions, garlic, smoked hams and other foodstuffs.

  If Audsley had been asked to dream up a cottage where he would like to while away a season in contemplative study, this was as good as anything he’d likely conjure.

  The cottage was unoccupied. Audsley paused, wondering for a surreal moment if perhaps Erenthil the Artificer was hiding beneath the table or under his bed, but the bronze man strode unerringly toward the back corner, where he descended several steps before turning to direct his smile at Audsley and Solemna.

  “Ah,” Audsley said, hurrying forward. “A stairwell. I see.”

  They descended into the belly of the stonecloud. Audsley and Solemna followed their escort around three times before stepping out into a broad, vaulted chamber. A steady, pearlescent light was emanating from numerous wall sconces, filling the air with a soft, soothing glow. The room was bifurcated by a long, iron-bound table, and more shelving covered the walls, many of the shelves bending beneath the weight of their tomes.

  The table was covered with further wonders. Any number of craftsmen could have sat at it and been delighted; there were wax molds, crucibles, jars of herbs and colored sand, bones and cured pelts, limbs of bronze and curious joints made of gleaming iron, and a massive scroll whose ends lay curled on the floor on either side of the table. Its surface was inscribed with neat, minute letters and an enlarged and breathtakingly detailed depiction of a flayed human hand.

  On the walls between the bookcases, numerous Portals were inscribed, one of which glowed as Audsley stepped out onto the chamber’s floor. Its surface swirled with black ink and disgorged a man a moment later. Aedelbert let out a chirp and flew from Audsley’s shoulder to land atop one of the bookcases, where he huddled and glared at the stranger.

  The man was short and slender, with straight black hair that hung down to his shoulders. It was combed straight back from an imposingly high brow, beneath which two eyes gleamed with wry intelligence. His face was weathered as if by the winds and not by passing years, and he was wearing a stiff leather apron that was singed with soot. He was holding a flat iron mask in one hand, the eye slit of which was covered by a broad lens of smoky glass, and a smith’s hammer in the other.

  Erenthil, the master artificer.

  Audsley tried to tell himself that this man had been alive during the Age of Wonders, that he was as old as the Empire, but the knowledge didn’t stick; it was too much to grasp, to believe.

  Erenthil moved over to the table, where he exchanged his hammer and mask for a pewter cup which he filled with water from a jug, all the while studying Audsley and Solemna with a sharp gaze that reminded Audsley of the bright, inquisitive eyes of a small bird.

  Solemna stepped forward and then lowered herself to her knees and pressed her forehead to the floor.

  Erenthil sipped from his cup, then moved it aside and turned his head away to gaze at Audsley from the corner of his eye. “How did Aureli die?” he inquired.

  Aureli. For a moment, Audsley thought this a test was a cipher, a final trap, but then he realized to whom Erenthil was referring. “I killed him.”

  “You? How?”

  “I had three dynamic demons within me at the time. I incinerated Aureli when he fought with me for Starkadr’s circlet.”

  “Interesting. Then you would be Audsley, Little Zephyr’s protégé . Aureli told me you had agreed to do his bidding. Why the change of heart?”

  A bubble of impatience arose inside of Audsley. Not only did they need to return to Aletheia to save it, but this man – oh, the knowledge, the wonders he had to hold within that skull of his! “Because I didn’t trust him to be true to his word.”

  “You thought he might use the circlet for purposes other than opening the Black Gate?”

  “Yes. And even if he did, I doubted the veracity of his tale. It was too much to gamble on without complete assurance.”

  “I see.” Erenthil drank deeply from his cup, then set it down again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where is the circlet now?”

  “Zephyr has it,” said Audsley. He wanted to take control of this meeting, but there was a terrible intensity to Erenthil, an overwhelming authority that precluded Audsley’s interjecting with questions of his own. “She used it to free the demons of Starkadr.”

  At this, Eren
thil arched a brow. “All of them?”

  “Yes,” said Audsley. “Even the ur-destraas.”

  Erenthil pursed his lips and walked slowly along the length of the table, staring down at the objects that littered its surface, reaching out to tap or caress some of them as he went. Then he stopped and picked up what looked to be a firecat’s skull. Turning it around in his hands, examining it as if for defects, he said, “And you’ve come to ask for my help.”

  “Yes,” said Audsley. “The fates of humanity and the kragh are at stake. Zephyr means to free the demons of Aletheia next. We’re aided by three dragons, a medusa, a kragh horde and the remaining forces of the Empire, but...”

  “But it won’t be enough,” Erenthil said with a smile.

  Audsley was at once impressed and intimidated – his blithe mentioning of Kyrra and the dragons had had no impact on the man at all.

  “No,” Erenthil went on, “you’re correct on that front. Not with the ur-destraas loose.”

  Again, he subsided into thought, and such was his gravity that Audsley couldn’t bring himself to interrupt his silence.

  “I helped bind that particular ur-destraas,” Erenthil said at last, setting the skull down. “That was some time ago. Obviously, we used the circlet.”

  “You — you did?” Audsley fought to keep himself from stammering. “You helped bind those demons?” A cavalcade of questions poured through his mind. “Where does the circlet come from? Why does it grant its user dominion over demons? How can we best them without it?”

  Erenthil smiled crookedly. “Such hunger, such avarice. What void, I wonder, do you seek to fill with this knowledge? Have you always been this way? Empty, yet aching to be filled?”

  “Pardon?” Audsley suddenly felt horribly exposed, supremely awkward and uncomfortable in his own body, unsure what to do with his hands, how to stand. “What?”

  “Never mind. The circlet was forged during what is now called the Age of Wonders. A being more powerful than even an ur-destraas was summoned through the Black Gate and bound. I know the names of those who did this, but they were legends even during my time. Through the authority of that being are the other demons compelled.”

  “I see,” Audsley said, fighting to regain his composure. “Is that why it wishes to return to the Black Gate?”

  “It desires freedom, yes,” said Erenthil. “Woe to the man or woman who grants it, however. As to your next question, we cannot defeat the ur-destraas without the circlet. Acquiring it must be our sole objective.”

  “We?” asked Audsley. “So, you will help us?”

  “Of course, you fool. Do you think I educate you from the goodness of my heart? Now, be silent so I may think.” Erenthil crossed his arms over his chest and laid a finger along the seam of his lips.

  Audsley bit back his questions and waited, growing ever more irritated with his own obedience. He was about to interrupt when Erenthil gave a sharp nod.

  “All right. I have a plan.”

  “You do? What is it?”

  The bronze man moved smoothly toward one of the Portals, which came to life just before he reached it and absorbed his frame.

  “I’m not going to waste my time telling you, Magister,” Erenthil said coldly. “You have proven yourself to be irresolute and traitorous. I will present it to the Ascendant himself.”

  “You’re coming to Aletheia?”

  “Of course,” said Erenthil. “But not alone. Even in these dire straits, I do not trust your Empire’s largesse.”

  “Then...?”

  Audsley trailed off as the bronze man returned through the Portal — and was followed by a second, identical copy. Then a third, a fourth, and more.

  “I will be escorted by forces loyal only to myself,” Erenthil said, moving to a different Portal. “Wait here.”

  He spoke the Portal’s name and passed through.

  The bronze men continued to file into the room. They all were wearing the same slight smile and all stared sightlessly ahead. They didn’t form up into military rows, but rather simply accumulated in a tight group alongside the table, a score of them or more.

  Audsley studied them, both fascinated and appalled. They had to be powered by demons. But how?

  When Starkadr had fallen, Erenthil had been experimenting wildly with infusing demons into swords and gauntlets and more – but he’d clearly improved his craft and had inserted them into these figures. But how had he granted them enough independence to move, to speak, without allowing them to slip their leashes altogether?

  Erenthil stepped back through the doorway, dressed now in a blue tunic and brown leggings. His hands were encased in heavy gauntlets of black iron, and a small mace hung from his belt.

  “No black robes?” asked Audsley.

  “I prefer blue,” said Erenthil.

  “Tell me,” Audsley said, taking a quick step forward. “Please. Did the Minister of Perfection tell the truth?”

  “About…?”

  “The nature of the Gates. The Black being the source of creative magic, the White being the drain through which the world was cleansed. That Ascendancy is a lie.”

  “Yes,” Erenthil said, rolling up a scroll and pushing it into a tube. “That’s the way of it.” He spoke with complete disinterest.

  “But then why do demons come through the Black Gate? Why does that magic drive Sin Casters mad? Why is it not a neutral, or even positive force?”

  “Why?” Erenthil stopped and stared at Audsley. “Magic is like heat. What happens if you set a pot above a flame?”

  “It boils,” said Audsley.

  “Yes,” said Erenthil. “Is that the flame’s fault?”

  “Fault? No, that’s its nature,” said Audsley.

  “Precisely. Men who can channel magic are pots of water. If they channel too much, they boil, overcome by a surfeit of power. They then either die or become demons, their very mortality burnt away by an overdose of creative energy.”

  “But —” Audsley’s mind spun. “But why are demons evil, then?”

  “Mankind was not meant to be other than what it is,” Erenthil said with a shrug. “The process of becoming a demon warps their essence, renders them inhuman, and drives them mad, at odds with the world from which they have been torn. Demons are an erroneous byproduct, a testament to mankind’s stupidity, not a damning facet of the Black Gate.”

  “But what of demons that come through the Black Gate of their own volition, the ones that possess animals and attack the countryside mindlessly?”

  Erenthil canted his head to the side. For once, he seemed surprised. “How do you know of this?”

  “There’s a second Black Gate,” Audsley said, wondering even as he said it if it was wise to do so. “We saw monstrous beasts ravaging the people of a village there. They were living in great numbers near the Gate itself.”

  “Fascinating,” Erenthil said to himself. “A second… yes. As I thought. Well…” His brow furrowed as he pondered the matter, then he gave a quick shake of his head as if clearing his mind. “Demons can come through the Black Gate of their own volition only if they have a host waiting for them. Think of it as a man diving underwater. He can only remain submerged for as long as he can hold his breath, after which he drowns. Likewise, a demon can risk entering our world only to force itself upon an animal, overcome its mind, infuse its body with demonic might and make it monstrous. It is very risky for them, and few are willing to do so without a guarantee of success. But even then, in doing so they retard their own thoughts and become little better than beasts themselves.”

  “Why not take over a person?”

  “Even a child can rebuff a demon,” said Erenthil. “They can only enter a person if they are given permission to do so.” He smiled. “As I’m sure you know.”

  “Yes,” Audsley said with a shiver. “True. But then... there was a powerful demon at the second Black Gate. In human form, with wings of fire. It was expanding the Gate’s influence, summoning demons into its army. How
?”

  “How?” Erenthil shrugged. “It must have been summoned directly by a Flame Walker in ages past and then escaped its bonds. Fled, in time, to this second Gate.”

  “Summoned,” said Audsley. “That’s how the demons in Starkadr got there, isn’t it? You called them.”

  “Yes,” said Erenthil, moving again to gather his belongings. “Of course we did. We needed their power. Summoning demons is a dangerous business, akin to inviting a demon into the world instead of into your body. It allows them to retain their power and move about as they like. You must be quick to trap them. But in that era, we were carelessly confident. What matter if one escaped here or there? It wasn’t the end of the world as long as there were Flame Walkers to capture it should it prove a bother.”

  Audsley bit the corner of his lip and glanced down at Solemna, who had raised her head enough to watch and listen with furious focus.

  “So, demons can only come through the Gate if summoned, or otherwise they have to possess an animal and become dumb in the process,” said Audsley. “And they can only possess a human if given permission.”

  “Or if they’re forced to,” said Erenthil. “As we force them to inhabit the bodies of my descendants.”

  “Yes,” said Audsley. “If they’re forced to. Which renders them vulnerable, doesn’t it? Being inside a person?”

  Again, Erenthil paused, halfway finished with strapping a pouch to his belt. “You are remarkably well-informed. How do you know this?”

  “I have a friend,” Audsley said, deciding to name no names. “A Sin Caster. He can drain demons’ powers when they are within a host.”

  It gratified Audsley to see shock on Erenthil’s saturnine face. “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” said Audsley. “That’s so.”

  “I’d like to meet him, this friend of yours,” Erenthil said, finishing with the drawstrings. “That takes a rare amount of power and will. Unheard of in this modern age. But, yes: entering a human host renders a demon uniquely vulnerable to being destroyed. What is your friend’s name?”

  I’m not going to waste my time telling you, Artificer, Audsley almost said, but he bit back the words at the last moment. “Are you ready to depart?”