The Black Shriving (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 2) (61 page)

He had decided that the most decorous way to fly was in an upright position, as if he was standing, hands linked behind his back, chin lowered. It was a pensive and dignified posture, and one that granted him a modicum of dignity. He floated in this manner out of the tunnel into the chamber, out over the mist and corpses, and then sank to alight in front of the Portal to Agerastos, dropping unexpectedly quickly at the end so that he nearly collapsed to the floor. Frowning, he caught himself and smoothed out his clothing. He would need more practice. He glanced at the day glass to see that the white sand had nearly risen to the mark.

Audsley watched the grains descend in a seemingly never-ending stream. So might souls fall into the lap of the Ascendant, he thought; a virtual stream of the pious and depraved, to be sorted and then sent back to the world to live out their next cycle. Unless you were a righteous Aletheian and passed through the White Gate into eternal bliss, or damned, like he most likely was, and cast through the Black Gate.

He tore his eyes away and glanced around. "Aedelbert?" He thought he'd seen a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, but he found nothing. That, more than anything, weighed on his soul. Aedelbert was quite possibly injured and all alone, yet he refused to come to Audsley. And how was Audsley to continue without Aedelbert by his side?

He sighed and turned back to the dayglass, where the white sands were still falling with the faintest of whispers. The level rose to the height of his mark, and this time when he looked up at the demonic runes, he realized that he could understand them. He coughed, then said in the language of the demons,
R'arzh ah-lkech.
A name, he realized. The name of the demon bound to this particular Portal.

The surface filled with black ink, and Audsley took a step back so as to not crowd any theoretical traveler. He felt a deep yearning for the sight of a friendly face. He didn't think he could last for long in Starkadr with only demons for company.

Ser Tiron stepped through, and Audsley raised his hand to his mouth. The knight seemed to have aged five years. Deep lines had been carved into his face and his eyes were hooded. Despite his clean clothing and shining mail he looked battered and beaten, with big smears of purple beneath his eyes.

"Magister," said the knight, his voice a harsh rasp. "Step aside. There are more coming through. Many more."

Audsley did as he was bid, Ser Tiron standing by his side, and a file of Agerastian soldiers began to emerge. Twenty men and women in all, clad in studded leather armor that looked better suited to warmer climes, with heavy packs and cloaks and curved swords at their hips. They all but stumbled as they entered Starkadr, their eyes widening in shock, nearly losing formation until discipline forced them to keep walking. A man at their front, a round-faced fellow who looked more like a shopkeeper than a soldier, barked a command, and the soldiers shook off their shock and moved to stand in formation to one side.

The next person through was Ord, grim-faced, followed immediately by Lady Kyferin.

Audsley clapped his hands. "You did it, my lady! You have succeeded? We are allies?"

Iskra stepped up to him and clasped both of his hands in her own. She looked worn, perhaps not as exhausted as Tiron, but a pale blue silk scarf wrapped around her throat gave her a little flair, and her eyes were alight with determination and satisfaction. "Yes, my dear Audsley. We did, though at great cost. We've lost Hannus. But his loss has gained us an empire as an ally. There is much to tell you, soon, when we are all safely resting at Mythgræfen over a mug of tea."

More people were coming through, a group of six wearing matching robes of purple and yellow, moving without military precision but grabbing at each other's arms and gesturing, whispering excitedly to each other in Agerastian and shaking their heads in wonder.

Finally came an older man with a hooked nose and a lively smile, a pack hanging over one shoulder and a writing satchel over the other. He bowed low to Iskra, then turned to regard the interior of the great room with an appreciative whistle. "This will make for a beautiful drawing. My fortune will be made if I can produce enough copies to sell in the market, though few will believe me that this place is real."

Iskra said, "Audsley, let me introduce you to Orishin, a former scribe and my current translator. He aided us greatly on our mission."

Audsley inclined his head, unsure how much deference to show to an Agerastian former scribe, but the man bowed deeply in return as if Audsley were an emperor himself.

Ser Tiron looked around. "Temyl? Bogusch?"

Audsley shook his head. "My apologies, Ser Tiron. Bogusch was taken in the same manner as Meffrid. Temyl... insisted that I let him escape back to Ennoia via a Portal."

Tiron's brows lowered. "Insisted, did he? The coward." He then studied Audsley's frame. "Your clothing is torn. Were you in a fight?"

"Oh, this?" Audsley looked down at his slashed tunic, which was soaked in blood. "Ah, yes. It does look alarming, doesn't it? But no, I, um, tried to make field bandages for Bogusch. It's his blood, I'm afraid."

Tiron nodded, but Audsley didn't like the curious way he was studying what might obviously be the work of claws instead of tidy tearing.

Fortunately, Iskra interrupted Tiron's scrutiny. "Let's proceed immediately to Mythgræfen, Magister."

"Yes, absolutely."

He nodded eagerly and hurried through the mist, leading the group toward the far Portal column. He could sense the demons in his mind studying them, using his eyes to take in the new arrivals.

The men and women in purple and gold are Flame Walkers
, said the monk, seeming to step forward from the darkness of his mind.

"Oh?" Audsley realized too late that he'd said that out loud. He walked a little quicker.
Agerastian Sin Casters?

Yes
, said the monk.
Their auras are hard to read without a ready source of magic flowing through them, but they are clearly adept.

Audsley reached the column, walked around it to the Portal, then took a deep breath and turned to the others as they gathered. "When I open the Gate, it will remain passable for about a minute. Enough time for us all to go through, but, please, be quick. Agreed?"

Everyone nodded.

Audsley turned back to the Portal and read the demon's name that was inscribed across the top.
Akressat M'chazk.

The door filled with black, flowing liquid, and Audsley took a deep breath, smiled, and stepped through.

He felt a moment of disorientation, a rushing wind, and a plummeting sensation in his stomach as if he were falling a thousand miles, and then he was through, stepping out into the basement beneath Mythgræfen. They'd done it! They'd returned! Now, to see how the others had fared in their absence.

Audsley walked forward, intent on giving the others space, and then froze. Was that - had he heard some kind of scream? All the way down here? Ser Tiron emerged behind him, then Ord, and all the while Audsley stood listening, staring up the staircase. A rumble filtered down to them, like boulders sliding down a cliff.

"Something's wrong," said Audsley.

Soldiers were coming through now, filling the chamber, their captain quickly assessing the situation and directing them to stand against the left-hand wall, ten wide and two deep.

Another rough scream. It was barely audible through all the rock, but Audsley felt the demons in his mind stir. All three emerged from hiding, filling his mind with their presence.
Demons
, whispered the old Aletheian man.
I sense them. Many demons.

The Agerastian Sin Casters came through, and as one they cried out in wonder, taking deep breaths as if they had emerged from a long spell spent under water.

"Audsley, stay down here," said Ser Tiron, drawing his sword.

"No, um, you see...."

Audsley didn't quite know how to disagree with the knight, but Tiron had already turned away, looking for Iskra as she came through the Portal. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Audsley hurried up the steps, around and around, seeing each step plainly despite the darkness, and came out into the storage room just off the courtyard. His heart was pounding. The sounds coming from the courtyard were terrifying. Screams and roars, bellows and cries.

Audsley lifted both fists before him, and a moment later crimson flame engulfed them with a
whoomph
as if they'd been dipped in pitch.

We have our utility, do we not?
The Zoeian woman sounded darkly pleased.

Ignoring her, he ran forward, lifting off the ground a few steps before he passed through the door and emerged into the courtyard.

Audsley looked up and saw the forces of Hell assailing Kethe and Asho on the thin span of wall above the gatehouse. They stood back to back, their swords flaming brands against the night, fighting furiously as the wall below them crawled with climbing shadow corpses. About them flew great bat-winged shapes.

Terror surged through him. Audsley wanted to turn, to flee back into the storage room, down past the guards and Sin Casters, and leap into the silence of Starkadr. Instead, he sucked in a desperate gulp of air, clenched his fists even harder and with a surge he flew straight up.

Up past the aspen trees, at times quickly, at others slowly down as if about to lose all momentum, the hold's wall seeming to race past him as he climbed into the night sky, and then in a flash he was out of the hold altogether, Asho and Kethe's desperate duel taking place below him, and only then did Audsley see the true scope of the battle that was being waged around them.

Below him raged a coalition of the damned, a frenzy of imagination gone riot, the worst of every thundering sermon he had heard from priests who had described the gory inhabitants of Hell in an attempt to set their young charges right. Their cries shook the night, their keening slashed it to ribbons. Audsley saw their host extend down the length of the causeway, encircling the castle, engulfing it in a cataclysm of evil that was tightening like a hand closing into a fist.

An imp-like creature noticed him and swerved from its trajectory to attack, crying high with glee and slashing at the air with a sword that looked more like a shard of volcanic glass than a blade.

Audsley stared at it, his shock paralyzing him. The sheer scope of what lay before him had boggled his mind.

Attack it, fool!

The Zoeian man's bark snapped him back to life. Audsley raised both hands, screamed, and split the night with hellfire.

The imp incinerated, its sword spinning off into the dark. Audsley's terror was fuel to the flames, a gout both terrible and beautiful, roaring out almost twenty yards to catch another flitting shape and devouring it too.

The whole world seemed to slow and stop, and a hundred eyes turned to regard him as he fell. Even Asho and Kethe on their thin stretch of wall looked up, their faces smeared with blood, their eyes wide and uncomprehending.

"Oh," said Audsley as he caught himself and arrested his fall, panting for breath, his panic ratcheting up another notch. "Oh, hello."

A panoply of war cries rent the air, and Audsley saw all the flying creatures orient on him. He was suddenly the nexus of the swarm, their sole focal point, and they drew in, creatures large and small, winged or flying of their own volition like him; winged corpses wreathed in shadow, serpents of bone, great and monstrous eagles with the wings of bats. Audsley screamed and spun away as something dive-bombed at him, barely missing, then a second opened his shoulder with its talons as it flew by.

He didn't know what to do. He wanted to cover his face with his flaming fists, but the Zoeian demon carved into his soul was screaming at him, a bloodcurdling demand that he
move,
so Audsley dropped his arms and dove down, trying for speed, seeking to evade the attacks that were coming from left and right.

Down into the courtyard he flew, moving so fast that the leaves of the trees blurred, around the trunks, and almost straight into the ground. He managed to lift up at the last moment, scraping the uneven flagstones, and then shot straight out through the gatehouse, a burst of confidence leading him to turn onto his back and look at his pursuers. A multiplicity of evil had come howling after him, choking the gate tunnel. Audsley yelled his defiance and unleashed flame from both fists, filling the tunnel from wall to wall with roaring crimson and incinerating everything in there.

Immediately his power of flight left him. He hit the ground with his shoulders, rolled over backwards, cracked his head with frightful force, and then yelled and fought for air. Just before he hit again and began to roll head over heels he lifted back up as if caught by a powerful updraft, soaring out of the tunnel and nearly into the branches of the twisted oak.

Screaming in fear, Audsley managed to veer up and to the right, blasting through the branches that whipped and tore at him, then he was out in the air, flying up and over the demonic horde that capered and leaped and sought to drag him down.

Audsley felt a hand clench his ankle and, without looking, poured flame from his hands below him, sending an expanding ring of lurid crimson out along the ground. Momentum carried him up, the hand let him go, and just as he hit his peak and began to fall he focused once more on flight and shot up, out of reach, up into the blessedly cool night air. He turned to look back and saw that more demons were coming for him, including something that looked like a dragon,
oh, by the White Gate, a dragon
- and then he turned to look at where he was going and tore himself to a stop.