The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  Selena, gasping, beamed in pride and at the thrill of the fight, and bowed low to Theletos, who nodded with a bemused benevolence and returned to the platform, never having broken a sweat.

  Kethe frowned. That had been almost chivalrous of him. Worse, he'd in no way shown what he was truly capable of, which was chilling; Kethe hadn't even been able to follow the final attacks he'd launched at Selena.

  Next came Ainos of Sige, who, while less generous than Theletos, made no attempt to embarrass her opponent, defeating him in a swift and efficient manner. Thirty seconds and the man was down, hand to his head, nearly concussed from the force of the blow.

  When Sighart was called to face Synesis of Nous, Kethe breathed a sigh of relief. The slender young girl was dwarfed by the Ennoian. She wielded twin short blades, each more akin to a needle than a sword, and Kethe felt a strange sense of surrealism at the match-up. Sighart, however, was taking the fight with deadly seriousness, and when the flag dropped, he launched himself forward with a roar.

  Synesis disappeared.

  Sighart stumbled to a halt and began to cast around frantically for his opponent. Instinct told Kethe to look up, and there she was, the Virtue of Intelligence dropping down upon Sighart from a fearsome height.

  "Sighart! Above you!"

  Kethe's cry cut the silence, and Sighart didn't hesitate. He threw himself into a dive a split second before Synesis landed, her blades having missed him by a hair, and gave Kethe a furious glare.

  Kethe grinned and shrugged back, but then the Virtue disappeared again as Sighart charged right through where she'd been standing.

  Sighart staggered to a halt, fell into a deep crouch, sword held back in the low guard as he sought to catch sight of Synesis – who streaked in from the left, low and blurred. Kethe bit back her cry as Sighart caught sight of Synesis just in time.

  His parry was too slow. Synesis' blade passed his defenses and caught him in the ankle, whipping his foot out from under him. Sighart went down hard, rolled away and came up panting only to take a series of blows across the chest and shoulders. He didn't manage to block any of them.

  Battered, he stumbled back, and back some more. It was clear Synesis was simply tagging him over and over, driving him to lose his temper, roar, and attack. When he finally did, she somersaulted right over him, striking him on the back of the head as she did so, and he collapsed to the ground, knocked right out.

  Kethe stood silent, her grin gone now. That wasn't even speed. That was something more – Synesis seemed to flicker from place to the next without crossing the space between. Was she simply that fast? No, that was impossible.

  Akinetos and Henosis fought next, demolishing their opponents with ease. Confusion was arising inside of Kethe. None of the Consecrated were coming even close to fighting back against the Virtues. These battles were on a whole different level. How, then, were any of them to become Makaria?

  If only Asho were here to connect with her, to imbue her with that terrible power they shared. Then she'd be able to take on these Virtues and have a chance of landing a blow.

  As Henosis defeated her opponent with an almost lazy grace and force, Kethe looked up at the platform, at Mixis. He was to be her opponent. He was ignoring the battle, staring at her with a cold intensity, a pure sort of hatred that completely unnerved her. Even when Kethe looked away from him, she could feel his glare boring into her. Why? What had she done to him? Had he been a close friend of Makaria's as well?

  Finally, her name was called. On leaden feet, she moved to the weapons rack. Her sword had been replaced with a new blade. The leather grip felt unfamiliar in her palms. She made some experimental swings and was relieved to find that the sword to be nearly identical to the first. A little heavier in the hilt, perhaps.

  Mixis dropped silently to the training ground. He didn't draw his blade, but simply moved to stand across from her. His wild white hair was unruly; his eyes were narrowed and locked on her. Though he didn't move, she could feel menace burning off him. Her instincts told her to flee. This man was death incarnate.

  Her mouth gone dry, Kethe held her blade before her with both hands. Middle guard, the best pose with which to defend herself. She adjusted her feet and took a deep breath.

  Still, Mixis didn't draw his blade. His hands simply hung by his sides, and his chin was lowered as the breeze stirred the tendrils of his hair. His eyes were locked on hers, flat, cold, and without remorse.

  Run!

  She had to fight to stay still. This was like facing down an avalanche. The world around them seemed to fade away, and she became aware only of the cool wind across her cheek, the way her skin was crawling, the sour taste in her stomach.

  Draw your weapon, she pled silently. The sight of him standing there unarmed was more terrifying than if he'd sworn and waved his sword around him in fury. Draw!

  The flag whipped down, and her vision went blank. The world span. She hit the ground, rolled, came to a stop. She couldn't think.

  Then, slowly, the world came creeping back, and with it, a flood of pain – a splitting headache, a pounding, terrible agony, as if her skull had been cracked in two.

  She was on her side. Her sword was gone. She blinked hard, but she could only make out the blurred outline of the flagstone beneath her cheek. Were people roaring?

  She tried to push herself up, but her arms were too weak. She heaved herself up barely an inch and then collapsed. She gritted her teeth, fought back the pain, closed her eyes, and tried again. She could dimly hear the official in the process of naming Mixis the winner, but as she sat up, the voice stopped.

  So did the cheering.

  She was at the edge of the training ground. How had she gotten here? Her thoughts were thick and slow. She had to get up; that was all that mattered. But... someone was yelling for her to stay down. It sounded like they were calling down an impossibly long hallway. Dalitha? She got up to her knees, then, fighting back the urge to vomit, managed to stand.

  She swayed in place. The crowd was a distant ocean, their faces blurring into each other. Where was her sword? She needed her blade if she was going to fight.

  There.

  Hand to her head, pushing it as if she could dampen the pain through pressure alone, she staggered up to her sword. Bending was going to be hard. She gritted her teeth and reached down, nearly blacking out again as she did so.

  Blood dripped onto the stone ground. Her blood.

  She straightened, blade in hand, and touched her forehead. The pain spiked, and she felt her gorge rise again. Her fingertips were bright red.

  What had he done to her?

  A low, feral growl rose in the back of her throat. Her mind was slowly clearing. Where was he? She took her sword in both hands and turned.

  There.

  Mixis was watching her, a slight frown marring his otherwise expressionless face. His sword was sheathed. A gust of wind pulled at his face and robes.

  Kethe inhaled deeply, fighting to settle her nausea. Blood was running down her face, between her eyes, down both sides of her nose. She swallowed, took a shuddering breath, and forced herself to bare her teeth. "That all you got?"

  She began to walk toward him. Only his eyes moved, tracking her approach.

  She didn't know what she was doing. Didn't have a plan of attack. All she knew was that she had to move toward him. That if she stopped for even a second, she'd fall and not get back up.

  The rest of the world had disappeared again, and all she could see was Mixis' narrowed eyes. The loathing in them. She'd taken barely half a dozen steps when he moved. He blurred, disappearing toward her right. She blinked, turned to track him, but then he crossed right in front of her, flashing past to her left, and in the process her world turned white once more.

  The dull boom of her pulse was a hammer beating against the world's greatest drum. Marking time, each beat bringing her closer to death. She seemed to float in the void. Only the sound of her pulse kept her company.

  She could s
tay here, in this darkness. It was deep and warm. All she had to do was let go, close her eyes and drift away. There would be no shame in that. She'd already gotten up once, defying all expectations in doing so. She'd not lose honor now.

  Just rest. Just stop. All she had to do was lose.

  Then she thought of the White Gate. Thought of the Black Gate in turn. Thought of Asho and her mother. Home. Roddick. All gone. All taken from her by her power. Torn from her forevermore, leaving nothing but a void into which poured her fury.

  Was there no plumbing the depths of her rage? She almost felt like smiling. Maybe she was, when all was said and done, her father's daughter. There was always more fury to be tapped. It was a font that would never fail her. As long as she had a choice in the matter, she would carry on, no matter the pain, no matter how futile the cause.

  And then, for the first time, she thought of her mother in similar terms. Iskra was the same. She'd never give up. She'd never admit defeat. She'd do anything and everything in her power, make any sacrifice, for her family.

  For the first time, her father stepped back into the shadows of Kethe's mind, and it was her mother's face she saw. Cool. Calm. Collected. Resolute and utterly unbreakable.

  People were around her. She couldn't make out their faces. A hush had spread out around her as she rose to her feet, like ripples from a stone dropped in a pond.

  "Where is he?" Her voice was thick.

  An arm was extended, pointing to her left. She turned to find a dark-robed man with pale hair, confronting half a dozen others. The Virtues? Everyone had turned to stare at her.

  She closed her fingers around the hilt of her sword. She felt like she was hovering above her body, its agony not touching her.

  She took a step toward Mixis. A second. A third.

  Voices called out, furious. Others answered, but Kethe didn't care. Only the sight of Mixis kept her going. And with each step, the song of the White Gate rose louder in her ears.

  Her sword was dragging behind her, tip scraping along the stone.

  The crowd around Mixis stepped away. Was that reluctance she sensed?

  Mixis didn't move. He just watched her approach.

  Her fear was gone. Her pride. She was reduced, simplified. Step by arduous step, she approached him. The song grew louder, drowning out the beat of her heart.

  When she was ten yards from him, she gritted her teeth and raised her blade, the sword weaving back and forth drunkenly before her. The song was echoing in the halls of her heart, in the vastness of her soul.

  She took a deep breath and willed her power to rise, gave it the slightest of nudges... and her blade caught fire.

  She heard a gasp tear itself from hundreds of throats. She clasped the burning blade with both hands, held it steady, and stared right at Mixis.

  "Is that all you've got?"

  Mixis drew his blade. His eyes never left her own. His movement was slow, deliberate.

  There. At least I got you to do that, you whoreson.

  He held his blade out to one side and began to walk toward her.

  Kethe simply stood there, swaying, a broken reed, her sword a burning brand of white sunlight. Let him come; she felt no fear. She was light, empty, devoid of all emotion.

  He was perhaps ten yards from her when he flickered – blurred – and was gone.

  Kethe closed her eyes, and time dilated. She hovered between two beats of her heart, between two breaths. Time slowed, nearly stopped, then it snapped back and she whipped her sword up and to the side and the clash of metal shook the heavens themselves.

  Mixis had appeared to her right, driving his sword two-handed toward her, but somehow her own blade was raised, blocking it one-handed. The flames raged along the length of her sword and dripped to the ground, disappearing inches above the stone.

  Mixis' eyes bulged in disbelief as they stood facing each other in silence. His whole body was bent behind his blow, and his arms were shaking.

  She held her sword aloft with one hand, effortlessly. The song of the White Gate reached a crescendo, carrying her aloft, mixing her agony and ecstasy.

  But Kethe knew that she was done. That last block had drained her of everything she had.

  Mixis let out a cry, whirled his blade around, and her sword was torn from her hand, its fire immediately quenched as it crashed to the ground. Mixis reversed his sword, clasped it with both hands, and went to plunge its tip into her chest, rising to the balls of his feet.

  Kethe dropped her arms to her sides. The song of the Gate made her immune to terror. It called her, welcomed her.

  Mixis' blade came hissing down toward her open chest, and then Theletos was there, arm extended to catch Mixis by the wrist and stop his attack cold.

  "You go too far," whispered Theletos. "Enough."

  Mixis let out a cry of rage and fell back.

  The song grew faint and fell away from her. Kethe felt a pang of remorse. So she was not to die. She wanted to call out to the White Gate, to call it back, but instead it was oblivion that came to claim her.

  Without a sound, she fell, and knew no more.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Tharok strained. He reached up, precariously balanced, and dug his claws into a crack in the rock face. That secured, he grunted and leaped, hauling himself up so that his other hand could clamp onto a whisper-thin ridge of stone. The air this high was thin, and the wind was perilous; a fall would see him dying on the jumbled boulders far, far below.

  No matter. Such an end would be mercifully swift. Perhaps he would even enjoy the fall. But until then, he would climb.

  The trolls were arrayed below him, forming in an invisible net that reached out a mile wide and several miles back. He'd loosened the strictures on their minds so that they were now semi-autonomous but still compelled to follow him; they fed, they rested, they sat and gazed out into the void beyond their ledges – but they always rose to keep pace, to remain within reach of his mind.

  Climbing did not require much thought. Tharok had always been adept, but now, with the circlet enriching his mind, he realized that it was almost a form of meditation, allowing him to ponder and free-associate as his hands and toes moved instinctively from ridge to knob to crack. Always, he thought of his plans. Endlessly, he turned them over as if they were a weapon in his hands that he was examining for defects. Inspecting it from all angles, pondering the psychology of the pawns – how they might react, how they might surprise him, and in doing so affect the actions of the other pieces on the board.

  He had to trust. He could not control everything, and had to believe that the odds would work in his favor. Kyrra had already shown him that plans laid by necessity could prove to be a snake underfoot, rearing up to bite him at an inopportune moment. But, still, he had to trust that Shaya and Nok would be able to gain access to Porloc, would whisper exactly the right words into the Orlokor warlord's ear, and galvanize him into action. Whether they managed to enter Bythos or not was of lesser importance; a human revolt would be useful, but was not essential to his conquest.

  With a grunt, he hauled himself up to sit on a ledge, legs dangling into the abyss below, back pressed against the lichen-stained rock. His heart was beating powerfully, his lungs pulling in air in deep, regular inhalations, and his muscles were fired up, feeling at once liquid and strong.

  He stared at his black hand. Turned it so that the fiery depths imparted by the Kiss shimmered in the evening sunlight.

  What precisely had the Kiss done to him? His endurance, strength, and agility had been increased, yes, but those were almost superficial enhancements. Something had been wrought upon his very spirit. But what? He still felt like himself. Why had Golden Crow changed so dramatically when he had remained the same? His thoughts tugged at this problem endlessly. What was the difference between himself and Golden Crow? They were both highland kragh, both male; they both held relatively the same morality and religious beliefs. The obvious difference lay in Golden Crow's affinity for spirits.


  Tharok closed his hand into a fist, the skin over his knuckles glowing a faint crimson instead of turning pale. It was the job of the shamans to watch for kragh children who showed a sensitivity to the spirit world, who seemed "touched", who would at times converse by themselves, look at things nobody else saw, who had strange and prophetic dreams. Those children were nurtured and, when they were deemed old enough, were blinded and sent to spend the night beside the Dragon's Tear, where spirits dwelled and future shamans either went mad or emerged tempered and ready to serve the tribes.

  An eagle was soaring below him, wings tilting expertly from side to side as it rode the drafts of air. Tharok watched it, musing.

  Very rarely, a young kragh would escape a shaman's notice, usually through living within a remote and insular clan, without any oversight. That youth would grow haunted by the spirits, would have ever greater difficulty in interacting normally with the world, until at last he was driven insane, babbling and laying curses without discrimination, living like an animal and unleashing horrific gouts of spirit fire. He would be hunted and killed, put down for his own good and that of the land and the tribes.

  Tharok frowned. If shamans naturally went mad, then it could be argued that the mystic forces within them were inherently chaotic and had to be balanced by their time at the lake amongst the spirits. Could the Medusa's Kiss destabilize that balance? Shatter the seal placed by their night by the Tear?

  Tharok shuddered and stood, one hand against the cliff, looking up to plot his next course of ascent. If that was the case, then Golden Crow – no, Death's Raven – would be bound for destruction, his mind eaten by the same madness that destroyed those chaos-touched youths.

  Tharok gripped the next handhold, then paused. Unless the Kiss not only removed the inhibitions of the Tear, opening the shamans to the destructive power of their gifts, while also insulating them from the consequent madness?

  Tharok pursed his lips in thought. What could a truly powerful and mature shaman like Death's Raven accomplish without the restraints of the Tear upon his soul? He shuddered, and resumed climbing.