by Ian Irvine
“Beauty is a lie.” He eyed her with undisguised loathing. “It has to be stamped out. Ugliness is truth.”
“You’d know!”
His hand slipped to the knife on his hip and Tali’s heart gave a sickening leap. He was either mad or a killer. Probably both, and she felt sure he wanted to kill her because she was young and attractive. He pressed down on her throat again. She gasped for air and he smiled. Did he get off on having the power of life, then death, over his victims?
But Tali had sworn to gain justice for her mother and her three female ancestors, murdered for the ebony pearls inside them. They had all died, directly or indirectly, because of Lyf and she was going to bring him to justice. Nothing could be allowed to distract her from fulfilling her oath. The thought strengthened her.
He removed his foot. “Beg for your life.”
He favoured her with a sickening smile and her scalp crawled. Rufuss was just another obstacle she had to overcome to continue her quest.
“You’re a pathetic little man, Rufuss. A miserable loser, and one day you’ll be begging me for your life.”
He swayed backwards, arms flying out to the sides as if he’d momentarily lost balance.
“I’m not afraid of you,” said Tali. She lied; she was terrified. “You’re afraid of me. Afraid of the power I hold inside me.”
“I’ve blocked it.”
“It’s not that easy to block a master pearl.”
His eyes widened. She had made a bad mistake—Grandys mustn’t have told him she bore the master pearl.
“You’re not here on your own behalf,” she guessed. “Grandys sent you to bring me back. Unharmed.”
Rufuss kicked her in the ribs again. When she cried out, he laughed. “You are afraid. Soon you’ll be begging for my mercy.”
“No I won’t. Grandys needs me unharmed.”
“What can he do if I kill you?” said Rufuss. “I’m one of the Five.”
“If you kill me, he can’t win the war,” said Tali.
His laughter was a hideous, clotted sound that made every hair on her body stand up, and she caught that charnel reek again.
“He just wants to use you, kill you and display your body,” said Rufuss. “He can have it after I’m finished—one corpse is the same as another.”
The situation was almost out of control. If she did not take it back, fast, she was going to die. If she kept him talking, maybe she could uncover his weakness.
“The Five Heroes were formed on the First Fleet two thousand years ago,” said Tali, “but no one knows anything about you before that. Where did you all come from?”
“Thanneron. We came from Thanneron.”
The Hightspallers’ ancestral land on the far side of the world. Once a mighty nation, Thanneron had vanished beneath the world-enveloping ice that was creeping ever closer to Hightspall.
“To be allowed on the First Fleet you must have been important people,” said Tali. “From high families.”
“We were—not high-born. We had always been persecuted, oppressed…”
Clearly Rufuss did not like to be questioned, but he wanted to talk about himself. Perhaps he’d never had the opportunity before.
“You look—” Bad choice of words. “There’s an air about the Five Heroes. It sets you apart from everyone else.”
“Grandys doesn’t allow us—” Rufuss bit the rest off.
It was her opening. “Surely the Five Heroes are equals? How can Grandys tell you what to say?”
“We were on the streets!” Rufuss burst out. “Filthy, dressed in rags, starving in that rich, cruel land. We fled on the fleet—we came here to find our Promised Realm.”
“I too have known starvation,” said Tali. “And random cruelty.”
“It wasn’t random!” he cried. “I had a master from the age of two and he beat me daily; he tortured me because I was powerless and he was rich, and he could do whatever he wanted—”
“Why?” Tali said softly. “Was there no justice in Thanneron?”
“There was justice, but not for us.”
“Why not?”
“We were Herovian!”
“I don’t understand.”
“We belonged to no caste, not even the lowest. They considered us sub-human; nothing done to us was a crime. I’m glad Thanneron has been crushed by the ice.”
“Why did you have no caste?” said Tali. “Why were Herovians different from everyone else?”
He shook his elongated, fleshless head.
“Why did Herovians have no rights? Surely, the law—?”
“Without a caste,” his voice went hoarse, “your master can lock you in a box until you lose your voice from screaming. He can make you sleep on broken glass… abuse you day and night… torture you a different way every day of your life until you sweat blood waiting for him to come, dreading how much worse today’s torture is going to be from yesterday’s, or the day before that. He can go on and on until one day he relaxes his guard for a second and you take him by the throat and choke him until his eyes pop out of his head.”
He was almost screaming; almost sobbing.
“Then you run! But there’s nowhere to run to because you have no caste. You hide in the endless warrens with all the other runaways but they know you’re there. The warrens are where they come for their slaves, their serfs, their whores. They round you up and take you back and do it to you again and again and again.”
So you were a slave, Tali thought. Like me, save that you were treated far worse than I ever was. And you killed your master to escape, just as I did.
It explained why Grandys felt such contempt for slaves, and why Rufuss had become a cold killer. His only power came from tormenting the powerless. It was eating him alive, and it also explained his appearance—a once big-framed man whose flesh had withered away from self-denial—but he could not stop.
And it told her his innermost need.
“But you had a dream,” said Tali. “Your Promised Realm.”
“Our Promised Realm.” His hollow chest heaved.
“Where did that dream come from?”
“From the time, an aeon before we boarded the First Fleet, when we were noble. We were nobler and greater than anyone from the highest caste in the provincial backwater that was Thanneron, and we’ve never forgotten it.”
What time was he talking about? For thousands of years before its collapse, Thanneron had been the greatest civilisation in the world. What kind of people could possibly see it as a provincial backwater?
“Who were the Herovians, way back then?”
Rufuss shook his cadaverous head, as if emerging from a dream, and his thin lips set in a ruler-straight line. “You’re trying to turn me against the other Heroes—”
“I’m not,” Tali said truthfully. “But if you kill me, after Grandys ordered you to bring me to him unharmed, it would be seen as a direct challenge to him. How could he allow it, in the middle of a war, when his army is outnumbered five to one? How could he let you get away with destroying the weapon I can give him?”
He stiffened. He hadn’t thought of that. “I’m one of the Five. We swore a pact to each other.”
“Grandys would have to act to maintain his authority, and his power.”
Rufuss did not speak. He was staring into the distance, eyes glazed.
“He would have to do something about you,” Tali added.
“What?” Rufuss said hoarsely.
“To make sure you never undermined him again, Grandys would have to turn you into a slave to his will… and you couldn’t bear to go back to that, could you, Rufuss? It would be like going back to your old master. It would break you.”
Rufuss jerked like a puppet, then turned those coal-black eyes on her. He was quivering with rage, and she knew why. She could read him now.
He couldn’t bear it that anyone so small, so apparently helpless, so offensively pretty, should be thwarting him. He ached to maim, disfigure, brutalise and butcher her.
“Not until Grandys is finished with you.”
CHAPTER 6
Rix clawed his way up the quivering crevasse, inch by desperate inch, the severed rope trailing behind him. Each laboured breath burned in his throat, yet the urge for revenge burned hotter. His hands were bleeding, he had broken every fingernail and his arms were shaking with exhaustion, but he was going to get out. He wasn’t leaving his army in Libbens’ incompetent hands.
A blast of steam came searing up past him, stinging his ears and heightening the stench of sweat and horse blood. He looked up. Ten feet to go. Ten feet too far, but he was going to make one last effort before the crevasse closed and squeezed him into a bloody smear.
He heaved, trying to drag himself up by will alone, but did not gain an inch. Rix pressed his fists into the sides to stop himself from slipping back. It took all the strength he had.
The ground twitched; more steam whirled around him and the walls of the crevasse moved in, now pressing so tightly against his chest and back that he could only draw half a breath. He could not move; he was held fast.
No! Rix focused his hate on Libbens and used it to force himself up another couple of inches. Then another two inches. One inch. He pushed again but gained no more ground. It was over.
He closed his eyes. All over.
“There, there!”
He recognised the voice of the hard-faced bruiser, Sergeant Tonklin, who had turned out to be a better man than his appearance indicated. Rix looked up dazedly. Tonklin was standing at the edge, still supporting his broken collarbone.
“Hoy, Jackery?” yelled Tonklin. “Get over here with a rope, quick!” He looked down. “Never give up, Lord Deadhand. We’ll have you out of there as fast as spit.”
“If the crack gets any tighter,” Rix wheezed, “you’ll have to scrape me out.”
A troop of soldiers came running. Rix felt their footsteps through the ground. He also felt a subterranean quivering, as if the earth was building up to one final quake. Would it win, or would they? They bridged the crevasse with planks and dropped a rope down. He wound it around his hands several times, held them up, and three men took hold of the rope and heaved.
His shirt tore to rags, the death grip of the earth eased and he was dragged up half a foot, the rough ground scoring bloody grooves up his chest and back. They heaved again and again, lifting him a little more each time then, with a last, enormous effort, pulled him out and dropped him onto the beautiful, solid ground.
The earth rumbled and, as though he had been the last wedge holding it open, the crevasse snapped shut. They stood him on his feet but Rix fell over and could not get up; every muscle in his body was in spasm. He tried to speak though only a croak emerged—his throat was as dry as lime.
Someone handed him a mug of hot soup. He sat up and drank it in a single swallow. Another man approached with a knife, to remove the rope harness.
“Leave it,” said Rix, hanging onto the severed end. “It’s evidence.”
The soldier retreated, looking puzzled.
“Thanks, Tonklin,” Rix rasped. “Go and get that collarbone fixed.”
Tonklin saluted left-handed and turned away.
Rix thanked the troop of soldiers who had hauled him out. They were led by a tall, lean sergeant with dark hair, green eyes and, though he was freshly shaven, a black beard shadow. Unlike most of Rix’s army, these men looked fit and disciplined.
“What’s your name, Sergeant?”
“Jackery, Commander Deadhand.” His eyes settled on Rix’s right hand, then flicked away.
Rix rose, unsteadily. His knees were wobbly and he wanted to lie down, but one matter had to be settled right now.
“Am I the legitimate commander of this army, Jackery?”
“The chancellor appointed you, sir.”
“Then you’ll obey my orders without question—even against my senior officers?”
“Yes, sir.” Jackery did not sound quite so convincing.
Rix held up the end of the rope. “General Libbens cut this when I was down the crevasse. He intended me to die.”
Jackery’s face hardened. “Your orders, sir?”
“Gather your men and follow me, at a distance. Look unobtrusive until I give you the signal—then be quick.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rix’s belly was an aching hollow, his legs had no strength and the cold wind struck through his shredded shirt and pants, but he had to act now. He found Libbens in a camp chair by a roaring fire, drinking a steaming mug of tea and eating cake. Cake!
Rix came up behind and kicked the chair out from under him. Libbens landed on his back, clawing at his scalded belly. When he saw Rix his red face empurpled.
“I ordered you to put the camp to rights,” said Rix, hand on his sword.
“You’re not our commander,” said Libbens, scrambling to his feet. “You’re a condemned man.”
Rix held up the severed rope. “And this condemns you.”
“A bit of cut rope proves nothing.”
Libbens gave a subtle finger-flick and Rix’s arm was caught from behind. It was another former general, Grasbee, a wiry fellow with bad teeth and cavernous, upturned nostrils. His incompetence had resulted in a bitter defeat in the mountains a few weeks back, the reason the chancellor had sacked him.
“Your shifter friend Lagger cast a spell on the chancellor,” said Grasbee. “He forced the chancellor to give you the command, then killed him.”
“Laying a hand on your commanding officer is mutiny, Grasbee,” Rix said coldly.
Grasbee’s grip relaxed. Rix pulled free and surreptitiously gestured to Jackery. “The chancellor died of a poisoned wound dealt to him by Axil Grandys, with Maloch.”
It was the wrong thing to say, on two counts.
“A sword you once owned and used,” said a third man, a lanky, hairy fellow with a low forehead and little white eyes like flies drowned in milk—Colonel Krebb. He had been such an unin-spiring leader that a third of his troops had deserted to Grandys in a few days. “Until it was taken from you by Grandys. Then you served under the brute for weeks, obeying his most depraved commands.”
Libbens, Krebb and Grasbee surrounded Rix. They were big men, and if they were game to attack together they could overpower him in his present condition. He had to keep them talking until Jackery’s squad was in position.
“I was compelled by an enchantment within Grandys’ sword,” Rix said.
“Are we expected to obey a man who could be compelled by Grandys again, at any time?” Libbens’ pocked face was an ugly bruise, his angled teeth clenched so hard that they interlocked.
Krebb’s hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Rix caught the hand with his left hand and squeezed, crushingly.
“Draw it and I’ll hang you,” he said softly. “With my own hands.”
Krebb wrenched free and lurched backwards. Libbens and Grasbee moved in, but Rix had had enough and Jackery was in place. He brought his knee up into Grasbee’s groin, then put his sword to Libbens’ throat.
“These officers are rebels, sergeant,” said Rix. “Take them into custody.”
Jackery’s men surrounded Grasbee, Libbens and Krebb, disarmed them and bound their hands behind their backs. Rix tore off the insignias of their rank and tossed them in the fire.
“Strip them, enter them in the books as common soldiers and give them uniforms and boots,” said Rix.
“But… they’re officers,” said Jackery.
“Would your men follow them?”
“We obey our orders, sir.”
“Would you follow them willingly?”
After a long pause, Jackery said, “Not willingly, sir.”
“I’ll get you for this, you stinking shifter lover!” said Libbens.
“You’re a brave man, Libbens,” sneered Rix. “When the fighting starts, you and your friends will be in the front line. See you set an example to the other common soldi
ers.” Rix turned to Jackery. “Send them down to the worst unit. I don’t want them infecting anyone I have to rely on.”
Jackery gave another order and the trio were marched away.
“What about me?” said Rix. “Will you follow me willingly?”
It was a foolish question, he realised; the mark of an insecure man. He was insecure, but he’d better not show it again.
“The chancellor made you commander, sir,” said Jackery, giving nothing away.
“So he did. Send a man to the lookouts. I need to know what the enemy—”
“I’ve recently come in from doing the rounds. The Cythonian army is still camped out east, by Lake Bunt, and the Pale are two miles south-east, huddled in their tents.”
“In day time?” said Rix, surprised.
“It’d be cruel out in this weather if you’re badly dressed and used to living underground.”
Rix frowned. Tali had gone out this morning without a coat and the weather had changed suddenly. “What about Grandys?”
“No sign of him.”
“Ten thousand men can’t disappear.”
“He could be behind any of a dozen hills,” said Jackery, “or in any number of valleys, and we wouldn’t see him.”
He followed his squad. A slender, red-headed girl appeared at Rix’s side with a mug of tea. Glynnie, who had once saved his life with an act of courage greater than anything ever done by this miserable army.
“Thanks,” he said, warming his hands around the mug.
“How did this morning go?” she said quietly.
He told her about the tree falling and crushing Tobry.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “He was a great friend. Still—”
“Yes, it was quick,” he said dully. “Is Tali back?”
“No. Where did she go?”
“After Rannilt; she panicked and ran during the quake… but that was hours ago.”
“I’ll see if I can find them,” said Glynnie.
“Where’s Holm?”
“Over there.” She nodded towards the healers” tents. “A dozen men were scalded when that geyser burst up.”
The main tent was full of injured men. Half a dozen healers and as many assistants were tending scalds and broken bones. Three dead men lay on the ground at the far end, one of them burned all over. Poor bastard!