The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  There was a purposeful gap behind Akinetos. That was where Makaria should have been walking. The murmuring in the audience became a respectful silence, and Kethe curled her hands into fists and stared down. She could feel the other Consecrated staring at her again. She thought of Makaria: his handsome features, his determination, his stunning skill with the blade on that moonlit causeway outside Mythgraefen Hold. How he had fought both her and Asho off until Asho had risen into the sky and engulfed the Virtue in black flame. She could still hear his screams, and remembered how the water of the lake had hissed as he fell back into it. How the sickly sweet stench of his cooked flesh had filled the air.

  What am I doing here? Oh, by the White Gate, this is a mockery.

  Next came Henosis, the Virtue of Oneness. Kethe looked up and was taken aback. Henosis was gorgeous. Her skin was like honey; her hair was golden and shaped into ropes like Khoussan's. She had a heart-shaped face, a small nose, striking blue eyes. She was almost as short as Synesis, but she prowled forward, her movements leonine and fluid. Suddenly it made sense as to why the Ascendant's Grace always had Henosis by his side.

  The last Virtue came forward. Kethe had been looking forward to seeing him the most. Compared to the others, he at first made little impression; his white hair was wild, tied in a topknot that spilled down his back in disarray, tendrils of pale hair flickering around his face like white flames. White stubble covered his raw jawline, and he was wearing a rough, slate-colored robe and gray trousers.

  The more Kethe watched him, the more unnerved she became. There was a burning intensity to him akin to a wolf's. It was in his sullen manner, the way he almost dragged his feet, as if he could barely muster the energy to walk. Yet she was certain it was deceptive – she could imagine him exploding out of his false lethargy into a whirlwind of violence: Mixis, the Bythian Virtue of Commingling.

  The Virtues stepped up onto the dais, each standing before their chair. As one, they turned in the direction of the White Gate and bowed. The entire audience rose and bowed as well, along with the Consecrated. Kethe followed suit smoothly enough, her pulse racing, but soon realized that the ceremony was just beginning.

  For the next hour, speeches were given by important figures, and then Sigean and Noussian priests stepped forward to bless the Quickening and summon forth the spirit of Makaria so that he might invest a suitable vessel today.

  Finally, Theletos rose and stepped to the front of the dais. He placed his hands on his hips and stared at the Consecrated. Kethe almost shook her head. She had never seen such sublime arrogance. No, it went beyond that: she had never seen such deep-rooted self-assurance. Only her father might have rivaled him in confidence.

  "Consecrated!" His voice was a clarion call, perfectly pitched to carry, stirring with its power in that single word alone. "The day has come! Amongst your number stands Makaria. I speak to him. To you. Welcome, brother. Welcome, sister. Your sword shall swing true, your glory will shine, and soon you will be recognized for that which you are. I look forward to embracing you. I have missed you these past weeks as your soul transferred from the Ascendant's glory down toward your newest vessel. I welcome you, for there is great need in the Empire for your guidance, your strength, and for the joy you will engender in the hearts of those who follow you."

  Theletos continued to search amongst their number with his piercing eyes. "To the remaining Consecrated, I say this: fight to your utmost. Today, no matter how well you perform, you will do glory unto the Ascendant. You will bring glory to your Virtue, to your cohort, and to yourself. Fight! Make this a Quickening to be remembered!"

  He nodded and then stepped back to sit in his chair. He pushed back with a heel to rock onto the rear two legs. "Let the Quickening begin!"

  Kethe's breath caught. She almost expected everyone to begin swinging at each other. Instead, four officials stepped out, clad in yellow robes with orange sashes. A master of ceremonies moved to stand before the dais, a sheaf of papers in her hands. "The first combat of the first round!" Her cry caused the large audience to stir in anticipation. "Wolfker of Makaria's cohort! Kasmi of Synesis' cohort!"

  Wolfker strode toward the weapons rack, a slender, pale Sigean youth stepping out as well. Kethe wanted to break ranks and move to the front to have a better point of view, but she restrained herself. It had finally begun. Something within her thrilled. Now, this she understood. This she had been bending her mind and heart and soul toward for years.

  Wolfker selected a simple one-handed sword with a broad blade for excellent cutting. Kasmi picked a long spear, and both moved to the center of the arena.

  "Smart," Kethe heard Dalitha whisper. "Kasmi doesn't have a chance if Wolfker gets in close."

  The two combatants stopped in the center of the arena and faced each other. The master of ceremonies raised a crimson flag, and the whole arena held its collective breath. Then the flag was whipped down, and both men burst forward.

  It was over almost before it had begun. Wolfker ducked low, parrying the spear and rushing in even before Kasmi could react. Oh, thought Kethe, marveling at Wolfker's speed. The blond Ennoian was wickedly fast, crossing the distance in a blink of an eye. There. That's what you get when you combine skill with our power.

  Kasmi let out a cry and leaped up and back, soaring some three yards up into the air, but Wolfker came right after him, leaping up even higher and then falling faster to collide with Kasmi and drive him down to the ground. They hit hard, Wolfker's knee on the slender youth's chest, blade pointed at the boy's face.

  "Yield," gasped Kasmi, and it was over.

  Dalitha whooped, and even Akkara cracked a smile.

  Wolfker helped the Sigean up, they both bowed to the Virtues, then returned their weapons. Kasmi went to stand to one side, his face dark with shame, while Wolfker returned to the front of the column. Sighart clapped his shoulder, and Kethe felt a burst of pride.

  The fights continued. There was no logic to the pairings; sometimes the combatants were evenly matched, other times it was a rout. Gray Wind defeated a burly Zoeian woman from Ainos' cohort after a hard-fought battle, while Khoussan and Akkara lost their fights to superior opponents.

  When Dalitha was summoned to fight, Kethe saw her start to shake almost uncontrollably. She picked a slender blade and stood before her opponent, a tall beauty from Theletos' cohort. When the flag was whipped down, Dalitha didn't move. She simply stood there, ashen-faced, and was dealt a wicked blow to the temple that caused her to crumple without a sound.

  As a pair of stretcher bearers ran out and carried Dalitha off the arena floor, Kethe felt her heart thudding with confusion and anger. What had happened? Dalitha hadn't moved so much as a muscle in her own defense!

  Sighart tapped her on the shoulder. Kethe blinked and looked at him. "What?"

  "Your turn," he said gravely. "Good luck."

  Kethe's stomach twisted into an acidic mess. She stepped forward, out into the open, and immediately whispers ran like wildfire through the audience. Had the arena floor always been this huge? With wooden legs she walked to the weapons rack, where her opponent was selecting a long-hafted ax and a circular shield. She'd seen him around – a handsome Ennoian, his dark brown hair falling to chin length, a rare combination of strength and lightness of foot. He gave her a polite nod and walked out to the center of the arena.

  Kethe picked out her favorite blade. Slender, of medium length, equally useful for thrusting and for slicing. It had an extended hilt in case she needed to use both hands for extra strength. Heart beating rapidly, fear coiling in her belly like a snake, she followed the man out into the center of the arena. Her mind was whirling, a thousand thoughts flashing through her head but none remaining long enough to make sense.

  The Virtues were examining her with a variety of expressions. Jaded interest from Theletos, patience from Ainos, anger from Synesis, and indifference from Akinetos and Henosis. Mixis, however, was glaring at her with such vicious spite that Kethe nearly shrank back. What had sh
e done to him?

  The Ennoian, Otmar, lowered himself into a fighting stance, shield raised front and center, ax held up in the high guard.

  Clear your mind, she hissed at herself. Focus!

  Kethe gripped her blade with both hands and swept it back behind her into the low guard, turning to present him with a three-quarters profile. Deep, slow breaths. Ride the fear; let the terror be your source of strength. You've fought demons. You've killed a Virtue. Calm the fuck down!

  She thought then of Asho. Saw him in her mind's eye, arms crossed, smiling in wry amusement, his eyes filled with compassion and encouragement and something more – that fiery intensity that he'd looked at her with during their last days together. She felt his presence ground her.

  She swallowed. All right. I've got this.

  The flag whipped down. The crowd roared.

  Kethe opened herself to her power. Ever since she was Consecrated, it had become easier to bring it forth, let it suffuse her limbs, boost her strength and speed and resilience like never before.

  No white flames clothed her body, however. This was nothing like when she'd joined with Asho and become the conduit to his magic. This was her own power, gifted to her by the White Gate. Hers and hers alone.

  Otmar began to move toward her calmly, his eyes narrowed, ax held up and at the ready. He was a seasoned fighter. She couldn't even tell if he was nervous.

  She'd seen him train. He knew what he was doing.

  But so did she.

  With a cry, she swept forward, sweeping her blade up in a vicious arc to attack his knees. A feint. He dropped his shield, but her blade was coming up high instead, cutting across at his face. He blocked with his ax, hooked its blade over her sword and yanked.

  Kethe laughed, threw herself into a forward roll, was past him and up. The fire in her soul was beginning to roar. This, she understood. This made sense. Let all the philosophy and religion and truths go hang – this she could do and enjoy. Her sword came hissing around, a lateral strike with every ounce of strength she could put behind it. She swung from the hips, whiplashing the blade across.

  Otmar ducked behind his shield, confident in his defense. She sheared the upper third of it right off, cutting through the metal rim, splintering the boards, sending wood and twisted metal sailing into the air.

  There was sudden silence in the audience, but they were background now, masked behind the roaring in her ears. Fear, doubt, anger – they all swirled into one thing: the joy of battle.

  Otmar was no novice, however. He pressed his attack, chopping at her with wickedly fast cuts. He had plenty of power from the White Gate at his disposal as well. She could barely track his attacks, but that only heightened her excitement. She didn't try to block. Instead, she stepped back as he pressed forward so she could remain at exactly the right distance for him to strike her, teasing him, luring him on, sidestepping each downward swing.

  The ax blurred. She could see him losing his self-control, his lips writhing back in a snarl as he missed over and over again.

  "Hold still, damn you!" His voice was a clotted cry of fury.

  So Kethe complied. She stepped in just enough that the haft of his ax cracked down onto the muscle between her neck and shoulder, the tip of the blade scratching a light cut down her back. She buckled even as she pinned the haft with her head, trapping it there, and met Otmar's eyes.

  The blow should have shattered her clavicle. It should have driven her down to her knees. Instead, she slowly straightened till she was standing erect in front of him, defiant, his ax held firmly in place. Her sword was down by her side.

  Memories came roaring back to her. An ocean of the shadow-dead swamping her and Asho in the caverns of the Black Gate. Lord Laur's knights charging her in her first tourney, lances pointed at her heart. The demon lord hovering outside Mythgraefen Hold, wings of fire sending wafts of heat at her with each beat.

  She smiled at Otmar and reached up to close her hand around the haft of his ax. The power of the White Gate poured into her, and she clenched her fist. The haft of his ax snapped into splinters.

  Otmar staggered back, gaping, as his ax head clattered to the stone behind her. Kethe raised her blade and pointed it at his heart.

  "I yield," whispered Otmar.

  Part of her expected the crowds to explode into cheering, but an eerie silence followed instead. She lowered her blade and turned to face the Virtues. Mixis had risen to his feet. Akinetos and Henosis were leaning forward, eyebrows raised. Even Theletos was no longer slouched in his chair.

  Otmar stepped up beside her, still shaking, and together they bowed.

  Kethe stared at Theletos. He raised an eyebrow, and she felt a surge of triumph. Then she straightened, ignoring the other Virtues, and strode toward the weapons rack.

  Nobody made a sound. The Virtues, the Consecrated, the hundreds upon hundreds of Aletheia's elite – they all simply watched her in silence. She stepped behind Gray Wind, who turned to stare at her, wide-eyed.

  Kethe didn't averted her eyes. She could sense the six Virtues still staring at her. She lowered her gaze to the ground and focused on calming her breath. A storm was building up within her. She was just getting started.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tiron splashed freezing water onto his face, then again, then pressed the tips of his fingers against his eyes. He scrubbed at his beard and stood with a gasp, the water running down his neck. Then he took up a rough cloth, dried his face off, and walked over to the narrow slit of a window so he could gaze out over Mythgraefen Lake.

  The icy wind that whistled over the lake's choppy surface chilled his face, but he relished the sensation. Ground me in my flesh. Drag me down into the physical realm. No thoughts, no feelings. You are an iron blade. You are a weapon. Nothing more.

  He'd seen Iskra several times since his return from Agerastos, but had kept his distance. It had taken a brutal discipline to close down entire sections of his soul, to quench the flames that gave light to pain and despair and hope, to seal the doors and throw away the keys.

  Tiron slitted his eyes and looked out over the lake's expanse. Would he return to the Hold again after this mission? Probably not. He felt a quiver in his chest and snuffed the emotion. He wouldn't seek out death, he told himself. But nor would he run from it.

  His mail and sword were laid out on the woolen blanket on his bed. The room itself was small enough that he could reach out and touch each wall without taking a step. It had been a simple storage closet, but it was exactly what he needed: a bleak niche in which to store himself until he was needed.

  Tiron knew he should start pulling on his mail, but instead he looked down at his hands. Dirt was engrained in the seams of his palm and under his nails. Thick ridges of calluses rode along the half-moon of the base of his thumb, along the insides of his knuckles. Scars crisscrossed his knuckles, the backs of his hands, the lengths of his fingers. Nicks and whorls, dimples and smears of white tissue.

  Had he once caressed soft skin with these hands? If so, that had been an aberration. These hands were made for one thing and one thing only: the meting out of death and destruction.

  He closed his hands and squeezed them until his knuckles whitened and his fists shook.

  A weapon. An empty suit of armor and a blade.

  Moving quickly, efficiently, he pulled on his mail, belted on his scabbard, and yanked on his black leather gloves. No plate. He'd be moving quickly today, and speed was more important than defense. He attached his dagger to his other hip, then left his room, not bothering to close the door, not bothering to look back.

  He went down and out into the courtyard. The Bythians had been cleared out and were being led by the Hrethings up into the mountains to begin their mining. In their place stood fifty Hrething warriors, clad in the mail and helms that they had captured from Lord Laur's first invasion. They wore them well. The Hrethings were mountain men, hardy as gnarled roots and used to privation. Ser Wyland had led them in drills for nearly six weeks b
efore his desertion. He might be a coward and a hypocrite, but Wyland knew his way with troops. Now, the Hrethings stood smartly to attention. Ready, watching Tiron, prepared to follow.

  Lady Iskra was standing to one side with Orishin, a number of Agerastian political figures, and her new imperial guard. Ten strong, their shields emblazoned with the head of the medusa, they were tough, competent men. Iskra wouldn't miss his protection.

  Beyond them stood Captain Patash and fifty more of his guard. The captain caught his eye and gave him a nod. Tiron returned it, then strode up to where Lady Iskra was standing, a half-dozen Vothaks by her side.

  "My lady. I'm ready to leave at your command."

  Lady Iskra gazed at him with dry eyes. She looked drained, almost haggard, but he locked down a surge of concern. She was not his to worry about any longer. She was his lady, and he her sword. Where she directed him to go, there he would ride, and there he would slaughter.

  That was all.

  "Very well, Ser Tiron." Her voice was formal, stilted, as if a thousand other words were crowded in behind them, unspoken, restrained. "The Hrethings and Captain Patash are ready to follow your lead."

  "Our mounts?"

  Alasha, the fair-headed Vothak and niece of the emperor, gave him a bloodless smile. "They await you in Starkadr. Not the monstrous horses that you Ennoians are used to riding into battle, but our own breed. You will find them as brave as they are swift."

  "Excellent," said Ser Tiron. "Then, we shall be on our way."

  "My blessings on your venture, Ser Tiron." Iskra hesitated, then stepped forward. "Please bring Roddick back to me. Bring back my son."

  His throat constricted. Tiron coughed harshly and looked over her shoulder. "I shall see it done or die trying, my lady."