by Ian Irvine
Nish resumed pacing but his unease grew. What could possibly have delayed her? He peered between the pinnacles in the direction of the village but saw nothing save a faint fire glow. He scrambled up the tallest pinnacle, which was hazardous in the dim light. The glow was a bonfire and he made out smaller sparks of light moving around it.
The wretched girl was probably gaping at some third-rate tumbler cavorting around the bonfire. He would give her another hour. Nish had just climbed down when Rurr-shyve reared up again.
For Maelys to control the beast, there had to be a connection between her and it, and if one suffered the other felt it. On the way here, he’d seen her flinch each time Rurr-shyve let out a cry. Was it now reacting to her pain?
‘Rurr-shyve,’ he said quietly, unfastening the ropes, packing them away and going to the front saddle, ‘Maelys is in trouble. I’ll have to direct you down to her.’
The flappeter gave a snorting gurgle, as if to say, You don’t have the talent.
Nish knew he didn’t, but he climbed on, put his hand through the hoop the way he’d seen Maelys do and said, ‘Fly, Rurr-shyve.’
Rurr-shyve snorted more snottily, but did nothing. After sitting there for a minute or two, feeling like a fool, Nish got off and refastened the head rope around the tree. ‘You’d better hope I return safely,’ he snarled as he began to tie the second, ‘for if I don’t you’ll be shackled here until you die of thirst. And good riddance.’
The flappeter lunged at him and he had to leap smartly out of the way, though Nish felt sure it couldn’t harm the only son of the God-Emperor. At least, reasonably sure … He hoped it couldn’t, anyway, though with its untrained rider missing, his father’s prohibitions might not hold at all.
Taking the crossbow out of the saddlebag, he wound it as far as his strength would allow. He’d been exercising hard since the escape, and now managed to rotate the crank a full turn further than previously, though not as far as Maelys had done. A direct hit would certainly disable an opponent or a wildcat, and possibly kill it, though he wouldn’t be able to wind the crank quickly enough to deal with a second attacker. It was better than nothing, though. He thrust the leather bag containing the short crossbow quarrels into a deep pocket.
Standing on the rocky edge, Nish put a hand to his ear but heard nothing save Rurr-shyve’s gurgling. He headed down. Rurr-shyve trumpeted. He kept going but the sound was repeated, loudly and urgently, and the feather-rotors went thuppetty-thup. Rurr-shyve never used them when tied down, for fear of catching a rotor blade in the ropes. What was the matter?
He clambered up again. The flappeter was hovering a span and a half off the ground, straining the ropes tied to the two small trees until they slid up the trunks. If the relatively small branches gave, the ropes might pull up and off.
‘Stop!’ Nish brandished the crossbow but Rurr-shyve spun its feather-rotors faster, until the rope tore through the bark of the small branch on the left-hand tree and slipped free. If it managed the same with the other rope, it could get away.
‘All right! I’ll untie you, but you’ll have to let me lead you like a dog on a leash, and if you try to get away I’ll put a bolt right through your rotor.’
Again that gurgling snort, and Nish was sure he detected amusement this time, but the flappeter came to ground and waited while he untied its tail and put the rope in the saddlebags. However, as soon as he’d untied the head rope from its tree, Rurr-shyve sprang, lifted three or four spans in the air and dragged Nish over the edge.
Letting out a squawk, he clung desperately to the rope as it carried him out into mid-air a good ten spans above the steep slope. He could feel the line slipping through his fingers, and if he fell from here he’d be killed, or as good as. He tried to loop the line around his wrist but it was too taut.
‘Rurr-shyve!’ he gasped as the flappeter carried him even higher, ‘Put me down. I’m slipping.’
There was no mistaking its malicious amusement this time. Rurr-shyve kept flying straight ahead. The rope burned as it slipped through Nish’s fingers and his arm was cramping from the strain. The flappeter dipped sharply; Nish swung through the air in a figure-eight, just managed to hold on as the rope looped out then swung back and, as he shot past the rocks crusting the steep slope, dropped sprawling onto them and tumbled into a crack, whacking his head and nearly taking an ear off.
He expected the flappeter to race away, but when the stars had gone from his eyes Rurr-shyve was still hovering above him, the end of its tether moving in a lazy circle, its breathing tubes squelching in merriment. Nish struggled out of the crack, caught the rope above his head, swiftly made a loop in it and pulled it around his waist.
Instantly, Rurr-shyve was off again, sweeping down the slope so quickly that he couldn’t keep up. He was continually lifted in the air, legs windmilling, then dropped until his feet dragged across earth, rocks and grass, and through spiky shrubs, before being jerked up again so hard that he left his dinner behind.
Finally they reached the gentle slope at the base of the ridge. Nish expected Rurr-shyve to take off and drag him through the tops of the trees, but it merely continued at the same height and pace. He was now running like a man hauled by a racehorse, stumbling, falling and being dragged on his knees, or full length or on his backside, until he was battered and bruised all over and his legs would no longer hold him up.
Rocks loomed up and, afraid that he’d be smashed into them, he untied the rope and skidded across the ground, sure that would be the last he’d see of the flappeter.
Rurr-shyve kept going for a few seconds, then curved around and hovered, allowing the tether to loop itself over Nish’s shoulder. He swatted it away and flopped onto his back, his heart thumping so erratically that he was afraid it would tear open.
The rope dragged across him, as if Rurr-shyve wanted him to take hold of it again. He brushed it away. ‘I’m sure that was very amusing,’ he panted, ‘but I’m not playing your game any more. You’ve got your freedom, so fly away and be damned.’
Rurr-shyve kept looping around, pulling the rope across Nish’s face until he remembered an earlier conversation with Maelys about the binding of such creatures. Because she’d been able to take command of Rurr-shyve with the amulet immediately after its rider had been killed, his contract and link must have transferred to her. Presumably Rurr-shyve couldn’t go free unless it either retrieved the amulet from her, or she died.
Nish knew that the bond between flappeter and rider was meant to prevent a flappeter from conniving at its rider’s death, though it could happen where the rider was weak, new or poorly trained. Since all of those factors applied to Maelys, and she’d slain the true rider, Rurr-shyve must resent her even more. He, Nish, would have to be careful once he found Maelys in case Rurr-shyve tried to kill her and snatch the amulet.
He’d better be ready to thwart it before it struck. On the other hand, Rurr-shyve could probably sense where Maelys was. Nish slung the crossbow securely on his back then fastened the rope around his middle and braced himself, expecting the flappeter to take off with a jerk. It was watching him with those great globe eyes, but this time it moved ahead at no more than a fast walking pace, the whirring feather-rotors taking most of the weight off its spindly legs.
The passage through the forest took longer than he would have liked, for once inside it Rurr-shyve had to be careful to avoid vines and overhanging branches. Nish was worried now. If Maelys was still at the village, she must be in some kind of trouble. He didn’t think she was the kind of girl to be distracted for hours at a village fair, but then he knew so little about her.
Approaching the edge of the forest, he looked down at a blazing bonfire circled by the whirling sparks of dancers carrying torches, and a spasm of fear clenched his heart. He unfastened the rope. Rurr-shyve rotored up into the darkness and disappeared. As soon as it had gone he regretted letting it go; at least it would have struck fear into the credulous villagers.
He unslung the crossbo
w, forced the crank another half-turn until it dug painfully into his palm, then seated a bolt in the groove. After making sure that the bag of quarrels was within reach he began to creep towards the village.
A two-storey dwelling lay straight ahead, with smaller huts to left and right; a narrow alley ran between them. He headed for it, sliding noiselessly along the wall of the house to the end, where he would have a clear view of the circular area within. Judging by the smell of manure, the villagers stabled animals below their living quarters.
He reached the end of the alley and peered out into the lighted circle. A tight cluster of people stood down the far end, beyond the bonfire. It didn’t look like a festival gathering. He was trying to work out what they were doing when everyone surged to the left, revealing a small brown figure suspended from a hoop mounted vertically on a post.
No, not a figure, a model made out of clay. He let out his breath, but the figure raised its head and he glimpsed patches of pale skin between the brown. It was Maelys, thickly covered with mud, and a group of children ran forwards together, hurling more handfuls at her. She cried out, squirming as she tried to avoid them, but every throw hit. What had she done to turn them against her so violently?
‘Enough,’ said a squeaky old voice. ‘Bring the red-hot pokers.’
Nish’s heart gave a painful lurch. At most he could kill two of them, but if he did the villagers would tear him to pieces. The only alternative was to declare himself as the son of the God-Emperor, though that would reveal him to Jal-Nish, for Nish could see a wisp-watcher in the distance.
He hesitated, though only for a second. Whatever happened next, he couldn’t allow them to harm an innocent girl. Nish swallowed, raised the crossbow and stepped into the light. He was about to shout his name when something struck him hard on the elbow. The crossbow flew out of his hands, struck the ground and went off. Someone shrieked from the crowd and everyone swarmed around a falling figure.
A fist seized Nish by the collar, a sharp point dug into his back, and a hoarse voice said, ‘Don’t try anything.’
He couldn’t resist, for his arm had gone numb. Before he took in what was happening, Nish had been dragged across to the hoop by a fellow as strong as a blacksmith, stripped to a rag wound around his loins and bound upside down to the hoop, his feet beside Maelys’s head.
‘Stop!’ he cried thickly, feeling the blood running to his head. ‘Don’t you realise who I am? I’m Cryl-Nish Hlar –’
An old man lurched across and smacked him in the mouth. ‘Liar and blasphemer! How dare you rouse us to rebel against the God-Emperor?’
‘But I didn’t …’ Surely Maelys hadn’t tried to enlist their aid in a rebellion? How could she think to begin an uprising in such a remote village? How think it at all, the little fool!
The old man whacked him again. ‘How dare you take the sacred name of the God-Emperor’s Son!’
A gaggle of old women approached, wailing and tearing at their clothing. Four of them carried a thin crone with straggly hair and a wound in her side, still seeping. Her clothes were drenched in blood and Nish knew she was going to die. In the war he’d seen death enough for a hundred lifetimes.
A cry went up. ‘The blasphemer shot Gyghan deliberately, and she a helpless old woman. Kill him!’
Nish’s face was swelling with blood, his pulse pounding in his ears. ‘But I didn’t! The man behind me knocked the crossbow out of my hand. I wasn’t even holding it when it went off. You must have seen …’ He scanned the crowd for the fellow but it was impossible to tell, upside down. ‘Look at me!’ he said desperately, despising himself for having to invoke his father’s name. ‘Can’t you see my father, Jal-Nish, in me?’
A fistful of mud struck him in the face, going into his open mouth and up his nose. He gagged and tried to spit it out but dribbles of muddy saliva ran into his eyes. He blinked enough out of his right eye to see.
‘Liar!’ shrieked one of the crones, the shortest and most hideous person Nish had ever seen. ‘We’ve seen the graven images. Cryl-Nish Hlar is a young, handsome man, the image of the God-Emperor, and you’re an ugly scrawny runt.’
‘It could be him …’ began another elder, who was white-haired, black-gummed and toothless.
‘If it was,’ said the headman, ‘the wisp-watcher would have recognised him and the God-Emperor would have appeared in a clap of thunder to save his Son. Since he has not, it’s proof that this wretch is an impostor.’
‘He couldn’t get here that quickly!’ cried Nish. ‘Please –’
‘He – must – die,’ slurred the dying crone.
‘Kill him, kill him, kill him,’ chanted the squat woman, and the rest of the villagers took up the chant.
The headman nodded. ‘The impostor must be slain in the prescribed way, else the God-Emperor will believe we condone blasphemy.’ After studying the staring circle, he raised his voice. ‘Put out his eyes with the red-hot irons. Sear the marks of the traitor into his face and body. Treat the witch-slut the same way, then weigh them down with stones and cast them into the river.’
Nish tried to tear himself free but he was too well bound. He let out a muffled groan. More muddy dribble ran into his eyes.
Something touched him on the shin. Maelys had stretched out her fingers. ‘Courage, Nish. Our doom is set, but at least we can try to face our deaths with dignity.’
‘Only a fool who’s never felt pain could say such a stupid thing,’ he snarled.
‘How do you know what I’ve suffered?’ she said quietly.
‘Before they’ve finished with us we’ll be screaming in such agony that we’d betray our own mothers to stop it.’
Maelys looked down at him with such reproach that he regretted his words at once. She could imagine their final agonies as well as he could, and she was facing them far more nobly. How had Father turned him into such a coward?
Out of the corner of his eye Nish saw a man approaching with a long, glowing poker, white-hot from the bonfire. Nish shuddered, but managed to steel himself. Face your end with dignity.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry, Maelys.’
‘So am I,’ she said. ‘I’ve been such a fool, Nish.’
The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes to block out what was coming was the flappeter shooting across the sky, the firelight burnishing the undersides of its whirling feather-rotors and picking reflections from its compound eyes. He thought he made out a faint, distant cry of triumph. It would soon be free at last.
ELEVEN
There had been plenty of time for Maelys to regret her stupidity. She had hung on the hoop for the longest hours of her life, with the whole village staring at her, watching the crones mixing red ochreous mud in a cauldron, adding various witchy powders, fluids and pastes, and chanting a dirge as they stirred the mess. Once they were satisfied with their concoction every villager took a hand in pelting her with the stinging muck until she was coated with it.
They slowly rotated the hoop on the whipping post so the bonfire would dry the mud into an even coating. She couldn’t imagine why that mattered, and whether the ritual had some sorcerous intent prescribed by the God-Emperor for blasphemers or was just a local superstition. However, once the mud baked on they didn’t bother to repair the places where pieces flaked off. Evidently it had completed its part in the ritual.
But no regret was so bitter as when Nish appeared between the houses. Turn back, she prayed, at the same time hoping that he could pull off a miraculous rescue, like the hero he’d once been. But he neither turned back nor noticed the shadow creeping up behind him, and before she could work the dried mud from her lips to cry out a warning, he’d been disarmed and taken.
Even then it didn’t occur to Maelys that Nish would be in danger. She assumed that, once he told the villagers who he was, they would bow down before him and he would come to his senses and take on the mantle of the Deliverer.
Only after Nish was condemned did Maelys realise just how catast
rophically she’d blundered. She’d undone all the good she’d done in helping Nish to escape. No, she’d made things immeasurably worse.
While Nish had been in prison, the world could hope that one day he would fulfil his promise. Now hope was going to die in this insignificant village and the God-Emperor himself could not prevent it. Even if Nish had been recognised in the images sent by the wisp-watcher, it would take many hours for Jal-Nish’s nearest lieutenant to get here, and since wisp-watchers weren’t able to receive messages, he couldn’t order the headman to stop the executions. By the time he arrived it would be too late for anything but to wreak terrible vengeance on the poor, foolish people of Byre.
And her actions, her choices and her failures would be responsible for their deaths, and for robbing Santhenar of hope. To say nothing of seeing the man she’d admired above all others tortured to death before her eyes. It was the worst moment of her life.
Maelys watched them approach with the pokers, already regretting her reproachful words. She hadn’t suffered much, as it happened – at least, not physical pain – so who was she to criticise Nish?
Below her, he was tugging against his bonds, though they didn’t budge. His face had gone purple from hanging upside down and he’d torn the skin around his wrists and ankles. Threads of blood trickled up his legs and his bulging eyes were fixed on the pokers that would put out the lights forever.
Maelys couldn’t bear to watch, but she couldn’t close her eyes to his fate either. She tried to think of something to say. She had to support him but could find no words that would help. ‘Nish –’ she began.
There came a shrill cry from above her, something shot across the village square, and her hair was buffeted by a blast from Rurr-shyve’s feather-rotors. The villagers cried out in fear and backed away, save for the two with the pokers. They stood their ground, staring up at the dark sky as they tried to work out what this sign meant.
Maelys’s hope faded as quickly as it had appeared. Rurr-shyve must have come for the amulet, possession of which would give it its freedom, and since she was about to die it no longer had to serve her. Indeed, it was free to kill her once it snatched the amulet and, after all she’d done to it, Rurr-shyve probably would.