The Fate of the Fallen (The Song of the Tears Book 1)

by Ian Irvine

  Nish made a disgusted sound in his throat.

  ‘I know what you think of him,’ Monkshart went on. ‘Poor Phrune repulses everyone he meets. He always has, and he can’t understand why. I’m his one friend, and in return he looks after me as no one else can.’ Self-disgust flickered in his eyes, then he added quickly, ‘His potions and unguents are unique. Moreover, his enchanted tissue-leathers protect me from the torment of touch, and I can’t do without him.’

  He held Nish’s eyes for some time, as if weighing him, before continuing, ‘I wasn’t afflicted by these rages before I touched the tears. And so you see, Cryl-Nish, the webs of obligation that tied your father to me were strong, layered, and complex. That’s why he swore never to harm me. Ah, Phrune comes.’

  Phrune bore a tray of tiny orange cakes and three rock-glass goblets whose bowls were no bigger than eggcups, each containing a viscous yellow-green liqueur. Its luscious bouquet made Nish salivate. Phrune handed the goblets around, then offered the cakes.

  Monkshart’s eyes lit up. ‘The very last of the aged gellon liqueur! A fitting way to toast the end of an era, since gellon is unobtainable now at any price.’

  ‘And the beginning of a new era; the age of the common man,’ said Nish sententiously, raising his glass and sniffing deeply before taking a small sip. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘You’re not joining us, Phrune?’ said Monkshart.

  ‘I see little to celebrate,’ Phrune grated, casting a malicious look at Maelys, ‘and there wasn’t enough for four.’

  ‘Very well!’ Monkshart said sharply. ‘I won’t keep you from your bed. I know how much pleasure you take from your activities there.’

  Phrune reacted as though he’d been slapped, then flounced out.

  ‘To business,’ said Nish. ‘I’ve looked into the Pit of Possibilities, Monkshart, and what you showed me wasn’t there.’

  ‘Nonetheless, it is one of your possible futures,’ the zealot said blandly. ‘I judged it the only one that would convince you – the former irresolute you, I mean – that you could become the Deliverer.’

  ‘I don’t like to be lied to.’

  ‘The God-Emperor must be cast down,’ said Monkshart, ‘and it can’t be done by the weak or squeamish. Nor is there much time.’

  ‘Less than you think. Vomix has a huge army surrounding the mountain and they could attack as soon as the morning.’

  ‘No!’ Monkshart sprang right out of his chair. ‘The sentries would have told me. I saw it coming in five days’ time –’

  ‘Look again, Monkshart. It would be ironic indeed if your failure in the Pit of Possibilities cost the Defiance its only chance.’

  ‘Phrune!’ Monkshart bellowed down the corridor.

  Phrune came running. ‘Master?’

  ‘Run up to the lookout, quick, and tell me what you see.’

  Phrune dashed up the path and disappeared. Shortly an inarticulate cry echoed down, then he reappeared, staggering from side to side. ‘The sentries are dead but there’s no mark on them. And there are lights as far as the eye can see. A gigantic army surrounds the mountain, making no attempt at concealment, and I saw flappeters wheeling in the moonlight. We’re undone, Master.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Pull yourself together,’ Monkshart snapped. ‘He won’t attack until his army is here. How close are the foot soldiers?’

  ‘Two hours, I’d guess.’

  ‘The Deliverer and I have much to do before we can take the secret way. We’ll need at least that long.’

  ‘If you know a secret way,’ said Nish, ‘you’d better get the villagers into it.’

  ‘It’s a dangerous path and there are … problems to be solved first,’ said Monkshart. He glanced at Maelys, whose head was nodding. ‘Such beautiful skin. It’s as soft as I’ve ever seen.’

  An odd turn of phrase, to Nish’s mind, though he was too weary to pursue it. With the lateness of the hour, and all that had happened since he got up, and now the liqueur singing in his veins, he was finding it hard to concentrate.

  ‘Her one good feature.’ Phrune reached out to touch her arm but Monkshart shook his head. ‘Shall I take her?’ the acolyte went on.

  ‘What?’ Nish said thickly.

  ‘To bed,’ Monkshart said smoothly, rubbing a frayed patch on his left glove. ‘Are my new gloves ready?’

  ‘They tore in the tanning, Master. The charm goes wrong, sometimes. I –’

  Monkshart went cold. ‘I have to have them, Phrune.’

  ‘I know. I’ve already begun –’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A couple of hours. But if we had twice that, I could make you the finest gloves you’ve ever had. They would caress –’

  ‘There isn’t time,’ Monkshart said regretfully. ‘What a waste. I’ll have to go with what you have. Take her, Phrune, and come straight back.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Nish said hastily, knowing how Maelys felt about Phrune. He carried her out. Her eyes drifted open, she smiled, settled her head against his shoulder and didn’t stir as he laid her on the bed and folded the covers over her.

  ‘What if you were to send the Deliverer’s true believers out to his defence,’ Phrune was saying slyly as Nish returned, ‘to sacrifice themselves while you lead him away, shrouded by an illusion created from the possibilities from the pit?’

  ‘No!’ Nish advanced on Monkshart. ‘I’m not starting this campaign the way my father would. We’re taking the villagers with us.’

  Monkshart and Phrune exchanged pregnant glances, as if Nish was again displaying a lack of the required mettle. ‘Alas, if only we could,’ said Monkshart.

  ‘Why can’t we?’

  ‘The secret way is perilous, even for the best prepared mancers. Especially for the best prepared, since those strong in the Art or in physical strength are more susceptible than the weak. The paths we must take are not entirely of this world, and so deadly that, without the protection of a certain potion, none of us could survive them. Unfortunately I’ve only been able to prepare enough for us.’

  He withdrew a small box from a pouch and prised open the lid. Inside, a crystal phial was wrapped in blue velvet. Nish held out his hand and, after a brief hesitation, Monkshart gave it to him. Nish held the phial up to the light. It was half full – a couple of teaspoons at most.

  ‘So all along you’ve been planning to abandon the villagers to their deaths!’

  ‘Deliverer, you see evil where there is none. I never intended to leave here by the secret paths, because they’re too draining. We were going to retreat down the steep western ridge-path, cross the stream at the Ford of Milbo and take refuge in the endless caverns of Spondee. We could hide from a dozen armies there, but with my spies captured and the mountain surrounded, that way is now impossible. Yet if the villagers surrender …’

  ‘They’ll die like the rebels they are,’ said Nish. ‘You know that as well as I do.’ He expected Monkshart to tell some glib lie but the zealot surprised him again.

  ‘Aye,’ said Monkshart. ‘There’s no hope for them now.’

  ‘But there is for us,’ Phrune said with that sickly smile. ‘They can give us the extra hour we need.’

  ‘How?’ said Nish.

  ‘Your followers love you, Deliverer, and they’ll willingly fight to the death for you. Indeed, they’ll glory in their martyrdom, knowing that their deaths are helping to create a better future for their absent families, and the whole world.’

  Had Monkshart said it, the words might have had a certain grandeur – a noble sacrifice – but from Phrune’s mouth they sounded sick, as though the villagers’ lives meant nothing and their deaths gave him a perverted pleasure.

  ‘I won’t –’ Nish began.

  ‘They’re doomed, Deliverer,’ said Monkshart softly. ‘Would you deny them a chance to give their lives for the noblest cause of all?’

  The zealot’s arguments were self-serving, yet despite Nish’s repugnance for the idea, he felt tempted. Having t
aken up the challenge of becoming the Deliverer, why not fashion something from the villager’s deaths if they were going to die anyway? The coming struggle must cost thousands of lives and if he were too squeamish to face up to the consequences he might as well abandon the cause right now.

  ‘Very well,’ Nish said, feeling ill. ‘But I’ll go up and speak to them first, to offer them the choice. I won’t sneak away like a cur – as Father did – leaving them to die.’

  ‘Not like a cur, no, but you must come with me now,’ said Monkshart. ‘The circle is drawing ever tighter and there’s much to do before we take the perilous paths. Phrune will speak to the villagers on your behalf.’ He rose.

  ‘What do we have to do?’ Nish got up reluctantly, feeling as though he were being railroaded.

  ‘I need to search out the secret paths, and that can only be done in the Pit of Possibilities. You must come too.’

  ‘Why?’ The late hour had caught up with him and Nish didn’t have the strength to take Monkshart on again. The earlier struggle had cost him too much.

  ‘The secret paths are like no way you’ve ever encountered, Deliverer. They don’t like to be seen, much less used. They’re deceitful; evil, some say, and if they get the chance they’ll lead us to our deaths. A single traveller – yes, even one as clear-sighted as myself – can easily be led astray, but if we compare the paths we’ve been shown independently we’ll see where any deceit lies. Make haste. Time passes swiftly in the Pit of Possibilities.’

  ‘I’ll get Maelys.’

  ‘Let her sleep. A third presence is never advisable at the Pit, for conflicts inevitably arise and the possibilities become blurred. Phrune will signal as soon as the attack begins. Time enough then to gather her and take the deadly paths.’

  They headed down the glassy track, and several times Nish found himself stumbling with weariness, but each time Monkshart steadied him before he could slip. At the bottom the zealot said, ‘I’ll go first. When I come up, I’ll say nothing about what I’ve seen for fear of influencing you. Only after you climb up from the pit will we compare the paths we’ve been shown, to make sure we have the true one.’

  Monkshart descended the ladder and settled himself against the wall of the Pit, where he sat motionless, eyes closed. Nish watched him uneasily, having no idea what to expect this time, but nothing happened for so long that, despite his myriad fears, he dozed.

  He woke abruptly; Monkshart was shaking his shoulder. ‘Your turn, Deliverer.’

  Nish scrambled into the Pit but had only seen the vaguest blurry images of glassy paths when he was ripped out of the envisioned possibility by Phrune shouting and his feet slapping down the path.

  ‘Master, Master!’ he screeched.

  ‘What is it this time, Phrune?’ Monkshart said irritably.

  Phrune’s face appeared in the opening, eerily lit by the glow from the pit. Sweat was dripping off him. ‘The army came up the mountain more quickly than expected, and a company of soldiers dropped from air-dreadnoughts into the village. The village has fallen and they’re storming the crater even now.’

  Nish began to run up the ladder. His foot missed one of the rungs, sending the ladder swaying wildly.

  Monkshart cursed. ‘But we need Cryl-Nish’s view of the paths. Without it –’

  ‘There’s no time, Master.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to go with what I’ve seen, and that’s not going to be easy. Stay where you are, Deliverer. The paths lead down from the Pit. Phrune, have you got my new gloves?’

  ‘Of course, Master!’ Phrune said.

  Nish kept climbing. Thrusting his head up beside the beam which the ladder was tied to, he squinted towards the dimly illuminated circle of the crater’s rim. A number of figures were silhouetted against the night sky, which had a red tinge now. ‘I’ll get Maelys!’ he panted.

  ‘She – she went up to the village, to see how close the enemy were,’ said Phrune, with a glance at Monkshart. ‘A band of soldiers landed all around her. She had no chance.’

  Nish felt as though he’d been struck in the chest with a hammer. His feet slipped on the rungs and he caught on desperately. ‘What are you saying. Is Maelys – dead?’

  ‘I believe so, Deliverer.’

  ‘You’re lying!’ Nish thrust past Phrune, knocking him flying onto the shard-strewn floor. ‘I’m going up.’ His whole chest was aching, his legs had turned to jelly and his eyes hurt. He couldn’t believe it. How could Maelys be gone, just like that?

  Suddenly Monkshart was behind him, gripping his shoulder. ‘I know how you feel, Deliverer –’

  ‘You know nothing about how I feel!’ Nish cried. ‘You don’t know anything. Maelys!’ he shouted, twisting free.

  Monkshart caught him, holding him back easily. ‘If you go up, Deliverer, all will be lost. Phrune, are you sure?’

  Phrune picked himself up, fastidiously brushing the dust and shards off. ‘Quite sure, Master. I’d reached the rim of the crater and was turning down the path to the village when an air-floater appeared out of the mist, above the houses. There were soldiers everywhere. I just had time to grab your … gear on the way down.’ He hefted a canvas bag.

  Nish wanted to drive his fist into Phrune’s mouth and spread those red, self-satisfied lips right across his face. Why would Maelys go up to the village with an army approaching? It didn’t make sense. ‘And you saw her slain?’

  ‘I lost sight of her among all the troops, but they were doing dreadful slaughter.’ Phrune’s tongue slid slowly across his lower lip, then back. ‘They must have had orders to leave no one in the village alive.’

  ‘Save Maelys,’ Nish said desperately. ‘Father would want her alive.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Monkshart, ‘though the troops wouldn’t have expected her to be in the village. She would be just another rebel to them. I … I want you to be satisfied that’s she’s gone, Deliverer, but we don’t –’

  Shouting echoed back and forth across the crater, then a vast, familiar shape blocked out the ruddy glow from the burning village. An air-dreadnought was hovering directly above the crater and someone aboard was bellowing orders, though Nish couldn’t make them out over the roar of the rotors.

  ‘Into the Pit, quick!’ said Monkshart in a low voice. ‘He’s broken my halo of protection.’

  Nish stared up towards the pavilion, unable to believe that Maelys was gone and that there was nothing anyone could do about it. He had to go after her. He sprang, but Phrune blocked his way and Monkshart caught him around the waist.

  Nish struggled but could not tear free. ‘You’re a proven liar and murderer,’ he said wildly, ‘and Phrune is a sadistic pervert. Why should I believe either of you? You’ve been trying to turn me against Maelys since we arrived.’

  A lucky blow caught Monkshart in the eye. Nish tore free, danced around him and began to run up the path, but had only gone a few steps when Monkshart caught him again.

  ‘She’s gone, Deliverer!’ Monkshart hissed, ‘and the enemy will be on their way down within minutes. My potion takes a minute to work and if you rob yourself of that time, you’re risking everything for nothing.’

  ‘I don’t abandon my friends,’ Nish hissed.

  ‘Shh!’ Tall, blocky shapes were moving onto the top of the glassy path. Monkshart dragged Nish back towards the sump and forced him onto the ladder, shaking him. ‘Listen! The Deliverer must do what is necessary to survive. There’s no middle way – either you gain everything, or lose it, and if we don’t fly now all will be lost. Go down the ladder.’

  Nish didn’t move but he couldn’t fight, either. The burning resolve with which he’d overpowered Monkshart earlier was gone and he couldn’t dredge it up again. He felt empty, sick.

  ‘She’s gone, Deliverer,’ said the zealot softly. ‘I can sense it.’ He jerked his head at the pit.

  Nish bowed his head for Maelys, then went down. His chest had a deep-seated throb now and his eyes were burning. At the bottom, Monkshart took the little box
from Nish’s pocket, pulled the stopper and held it out to Phrune. ‘Just the merest taste on your tongue, remember? Too much is as bad as too little. Then count to fifty-five and go.’

  Phrune tasted the potion, made a face and handed it back hastily. His lips appeared redder and more swollen than before. Monkshart’s left eye was swelling from Nish’s lucky blow. He handed the flask to Nish but Nish didn’t take it.

  ‘After you. I don’t know what to do. I never saw any paths.’

  ‘I know, and that’s going to make it far harder.’ Monkshart tasted the potion and passed it to Nish. ‘Count to fifty-five then follow me. Tread exactly in my footsteps and keep an image of something you know well in your mind the whole time, else you’ll lose the path. Or go mad.’

  That wasn’t reassuring. Nish was sniffing the top of the phial when there came a series of brittle cracks from above, like crossbow bolts smashing into the glassy floor. Someone shouted a furious order and the sounds ceased. He tilted the phial, allowing the thick liquid to surge onto his tongue. Too much! Ugh, it was bitter.

  Phrune said, ‘Fifty-five,’ stepped forwards and dropped into the green, miasma-filled Mistmurk. The murk roiled and he was gone.

  Monkshart was staring at Nish. ‘Ready?’ Nish nodded numbly. Monkshart clapped him on the shoulder again. ‘Steady!’ and followed Phrune.

  Nish realised that he hadn’t begun to count. It must be thirty seconds by now, surely? He counted down to fifty-five, took a deep breath and stepped into the Mistmurk.

  Lights flashed before his eyes, then all senses blanked out, save one – he could still feel. He was falling, though very slowly, and had the oddest feeling that his arms and legs were dissolving into drifting vapour, before reforming. He landed on something soft and rubbery, bounced twice and heard an audible snick inside his head.

  His senses returned; Nish made out a steep slope corkscrewing down to the right and caught a flash of movement there. Realising that he was still holding the phial, he tossed it away and heard it break.

  Maelys was gone. It hurt more than he could ever have imagined. He tried to fix her in his mind and use her as the focus he’d need to survive the uncanny paths, but she kept slipping away from him. He should have gone back to make sure, whatever the risk. No, he should never have come down to the pit without her. Why on earth had she gone up to the village?