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

by Ian Irvine

  Maelys put her hand over her mouth. The spell was going wrong. He was going to end up a monstrosity. His legs lengthened again, but much further this time, until the base of his blister-feet touched the wall, before shrinking once more. His head flattened, became pointed, then sucked in on the left side.

  His chest bulged like a beer barrel before flattening like a board; every other part of him went through bizarre transformations, each accompanied by hisses and crackly gasps, and revolting stenches.

  The blister swelled all over before finally contracting until a normal man’s form was revealed, rather larger than Flydd’s original shape and size, though the fluid within it remained blood-coloured and opaque. He became as rigid as a post, remained that way for several minutes, and stretched out his hand again.

  ‘Crrr – crrrrr –’

  Her heart gave a leap. The renewal must have gone very wrong if he needed a third crystal, and it only left two to crack the barrier and hold open the path through the shadow realm, whatever that was. Two wouldn’t be enough. Even if he survived renewal they wouldn’t be able to escape now.

  There was no choice but to go on. When she turned back with the green crystal the blister was contracting again, but this time it went all the way down as the fluid was drawn into Flydd’s tissues. It shrank tight on his torso, thickened, darkened then tore and began to peel away like week-old sunburn, exposing new pink skin beneath, as smooth as a baby’s.

  The body it clothed was that of a mature man in middle age, though he wasn’t the scrawny runt Flydd had been. This fellow was of average height and muscular build, though she could still see traces of the scars he had before renewal.

  The blister still covered his face and she couldn’t make out any details there, but he looked in good health. She breathed out. Flydd had come through and, if renewal was nearly done, he might not need to use the third crystal after all.

  She slipped it between his extended fingers – the blisters hadn’t collapsed there either – and turned away at once, though this time the flash was barely visible. He’d required hardly any power.

  But then blood began to trickle down his fingers, and her own blood seemed to harden in her veins. What had gone wrong? He dropped the shattered fragments of the green crystal and reached out to her again.

  ‘Crrr – crrrrr –’

  FORTY-SIX

  Nish sat on the bench outside the hut, handed the lantern to Zham and unfolded Flydd’s plan of the defences. The wind tried to tear it out of his hands. Zham held the lantern close, shielding Nish from the worst of it. Colm stood on his other side, the hostility gone, though Nish didn’t think they could ever be friends. Still, it didn’t matter now.

  The plan showed the cloverleaf outline of the plateau top, with the four clefts between the lobes clearly marked, as well as the hut near the rim of the southern lobe. Other markings were explained in a series of annotations, in Flydd’s small, neat hand.

  ‘The side walls of the clefts are sheer,’ Nish read, ‘but skilled climbers with ropes and irons could make their way up the steep broken stone in the inner ends. The clefts are protected with trip lines a hundred spans below the top, which set off wooden clappers by the hut –’ He looked up. ‘That’s what I heard as we came up yesterday. Bloody Flydd! He knew we were here, yet he let us wander around like geese for a full day.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ said Colm.

  Nish read on. ‘– giving a warning so there’s time to drop fire pots onto the peat walls in the three narrow clefts.’

  ‘Peat walls?’ said Colm.

  Nish squinted at the plan. ‘The inner ends of those clefts are walled off below the top with oil-soaked peat blocks that can be set on fire to delay an attack.’

  ‘Clever,’ said Zham. ‘They won’t be able to climb around a burning wall, and if they try to pull it down it’ll collapse on them.’

  ‘What about the main cleft?’ said Zham. ‘It doesn’t have a wall.’

  Nish frowned at the plan. ‘It just says to hurl the barrels down onto the rocks.’

  ‘What barrels?’

  ‘They’re stored in hollows to right and left of the cleft.’

  ‘What’s in them?’ said Colm. ‘It doesn’t say. Oil, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t see what good oil would be,’ said Colm, ‘but let’s get it done.’

  ‘Better to wait until we hear the clappers,’ said Zham. ‘If it rains, the oil will wash away before morning. Let’s start doing the rounds of the clefts.’

  ‘I’m worn out, Zham.’

  Nish was huddled in a depression near the main cleft, out of the wind. They’d been tramping from one cleft to another for hours, keeping watch. There had been no sign of the enemy and he was wet, cold and exhausted. In the olden days he could have endured it without complaint but he felt a lesser man now …

  ‘You must stay awake, surr,’ said Zham, shaking him. ‘It won’t be long.’

  The faintest mist had risen, just enough to create a halo around the moon. Even in the dim light his eyes looked bloodshot, but his back was held as straight as ever. Perhaps straighter. Zham was a simple man whose faith in Nish was absolute. His oath had sustained him through every trial so far and it drove him now. If he felt doubt or fear, it was carefully hidden.

  Zham’s hand caught Nish as he swayed backwards. ‘Sorry!’ Nish said, horrified that he’d dozed off. During the war, a sentry would have been executed for sleeping on watch, but the greater shame was letting one’s comrades down.

  Zham was staring straight ahead, his big jaw working, stolidly refusing to judge, which made it worse. Nish forced himself to his feet. ‘I’ll go back to the hut and see how they’re going. Can you –?’

  ‘I’ll do the rounds again, and get Colm’s report from the other side.’

  ‘Thanks, Zham.’ Nish reached up to clap him on the shoulder, then turned away to slosh down the churned track to the hut, praying that Flydd’s renewal would show progress this time.

  It didn’t.

  Maelys forced herself to stay calm. ‘What’s gone wrong, Xervish?’

  ‘Crrr – crrrrr –’

  She stumbled to the crystal case, extracted the sulphur yellow crystal, the second last, and slid it into his fingers, which were still sausage-like. They clenched around the crystal, he reached across to slip it into his right hand, and his left hand reached out to her again.

  ‘What is it, Xervish? Do you want the last crystal?’ They were doomed either way.

  The renewed, unfamiliar Flydd was squealing deep in his throat and reaching for her hand, but she couldn’t work out what he wanted. Alarmed, she backed away, remembering the warning and afraid of his touch, but his squealing grew more urgent. He reached out to her. Could he be trying to tell her something, or was the thing inside the blister not Flydd at all? What if she touched him and caused the spell to go wrong?

  What if she didn’t help him and renewal failed? She had to take the risk. How could he hope to complete the spell when he was in such pain?

  Taking a deep breath, she touched his left index finger with her own. He snatched at her hand, his bloated fingers compressing around hers with a hiss as the remaining fluid was squeezed back into his tissues. He was much stronger now; his grip crushed her hand.

  A boiling surge ran through her fingers and up her arm, followed by a dizzying wrench that had her staggering and fending off the floor with her free hand. Letting out a tormented cry, he tried to push her away.

  Maelys attempted to pull free, seized by a sudden panic, but his left hand had locked around hers and a line of heat was running from her midriff, along her arm and into her fingers, growing stronger all the time. The centre of her chest, surrounding her heart, grew so hot, tight and painful that she couldn’t stand upright.

  As she hit the floor, the lines of fire were like molten tin being pumped down her veins. Her fingers were burning now; she could feel the heat streaming from her into Flydd, and as it did her chest cooled; her racing hear
t began to beat more slowly. And more slowly still.

  The coolness continued down her arm into her throbbing fingers, but her chest muscles were stiffening with cold, her heartbeat slowing to a murmur. Another wave of dizziness swept through her …

  She woke up lying on the floor on the other side of the hut, her head and shoulder aching as if she’d crashed hard into something.

  Or been thrown.

  ‘Maelys?’ Nish was standing in the doorway, still dripping.

  She sat up, which really hurt. Her fingers were covered in flakes of skin; Flydd’s old skin.

  ‘It’s as bad as it could be,’ she croaked brushing it off. ‘Four crystals gone and I still don’t know if it’s done. He had to draw on me, Nish, though he’d warned me not to come near while the spell was still active. He took something from me and now my head feels strange. I don’t know what’s happening and I’m really, really afraid. Should I have kept him at bay? Have I made things worse?’

  His larynx bobbed up and down; his mouth opened and closed. ‘Maybe it’s all part of the spell. We’ve got to keep faith.’ He didn’t sound as though he believed it.

  ‘But he used four crystals, Nish! He hoped he could do it with one. Flydd said at least three were needed for our escape, so without them –’

  ‘Get a grip on yourself!’ he snapped, then added with a heroic attempt at calm, ‘No one in the world is better in a tight situation than Xervish. Trust him. Believe in him. We’ve still got time. There’s no sign of them yet –’

  Maelys thought she’d heard something outside. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

  The sound came again, a faint clack-clack, followed by running feet and a low, urgent cry of, ‘Nish! Nish!’

  Before Nish could reach the door it slammed back against the wall and Zham was framed in the opening. ‘They’re coming!’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Nish’s drowsiness vanished. ‘Where?’

  ‘North-west cleft,’ said Zham, his mighty chest heaving.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know, but the clappers just went off.’

  Nish said, ‘It’s all up to you, Maelys,’ and turned to the door.

  ‘No, it’s up to Flydd,’ she said softly. ‘I can’t do any more.’

  He ran out. ‘We’d better fire the peat walls, Zham.’

  ‘All of them, surr?’

  Nish splashed down the track after Zham. He, Zham and Colm had inspected the defences earlier. Flydd had cunningly built the peat barriers, walls a good two spans high, at the narrowest and steepest parts of the three narrow clefts, where it was impossible to climb around them. A knotted rope, fixed to the rim of the plateau, could be tossed over to assist climbing down to each wall, and bladders of oil were concealed nearby to ensure a good blaze.

  Once fired, the peat walls would hold a small force off for an hour or two, since peat burned slowly, though after that the walls would collapse.

  All depended on how many climbers came up each cleft. If Vomix had sent just a few, they probably wouldn’t risk their lives trying to get past the burning walls in case all were lost, which would leave a gap in the attack plan. But if each cleft held a dozen or more troops, their leaders would order the most reckless soldiers to pull the burning wall down from below, and shelter under their shields. His father wouldn’t care if a few men fell to their deaths as long as enough survived to carry out the attack plan.

  What would that plan be? First, guard the four clefts so no one could escape, and make sure they couldn’t get away in a home-made air-floater. Then secure the rim so they couldn’t leap to their deaths, though that would take a sizeable force.

  To be sure, the attack must wait for dawn, by which time hundreds of soldiers would have climbed the main cleft. Sunrise was still some way off, but could he, Nish, afford to wait? No, he had to give Flydd as much time as possible, for even if the renewal spell worked perfectly he’d suffer cruelly from aftersickness. The soldiers must be approaching the peat walls now and if they got past all was lost. Nish felt a spasm of panic and struggled to control it.

  ‘Do it!’ he said hoarsely. ‘Run! I’ll take the south-western cleft. Signal Colm to fire the north-western one, and you do the north-eastern. Then come back to the main cleft.’

  Zham lit one of the lanterns and waved it in a great circle on the end of his arm, the pre-arranged signal. Nish was already running around the lobe of the plateau. It would be further than cutting directly through the marshes, but would be quicker, since the footing along the rim was solid rock or hard-packed earth. After a minute or two he made out Colm’s answering lantern wave from the other side, a moving halo through the wind-churned ground mist.

  Watching the light as he ran, Nish’s toe snagged on something and he hit the ground so hard that his sword jarred out of its scabbard, clanging on rock. He skidded into a puddle, mud splashed into his eyes and he flailed blindly for his weapon. Not now! What if they were already tearing down the peat barrier?

  Panic again. He didn’t recall being quite so prone to it in the old days, but since getting out of prison it had been his greatest failing – apart from despair.

  Think! The sword couldn’t be more than half a span away and it had probably flown forwards. He came to his knees, felt in the most likely place and there it was – cold, comforting steel under his hand. He slid it back into its sheath and limped to the cleft.

  At the top he scanned the misty gloom to left and right, in case the enemy were already up, but saw and heard nothing, nor from the cleft either. This one was just a gash into the plateau, like a thin wedge cut deep into a cake. It would make the climb up even more difficult for the enemy; would make it harder to fire the peat wall, too. Nish marvelled that Flydd had been able to build them at all in such precipitous terrain.

  He peered over the edge but saw only impenetrable darkness. The clapper warning had gone off in the north-western cleft, though he must assume that there would be coordinated attacks from all four clefts.

  He couldn’t see the peat barrier in the moon shadow, though he knew where it was, some ten spans below. Unfortunately he couldn’t fire it from here. He’d have to go down the knotted rope with the bladder of oil slung over his shoulder, to make sure the oil ended up on the peat.

  Nish searched the darkness for any sign that the other walls were on fire. He’d not see flames from here – wet peat wouldn’t blaze high, as dry firewood did – but might glimpse a glow. He saw nothing. What if Zham had fallen in the swamp, or been taken by one of the stink-snappers?

  Stop it! Just get the job done. Nish felt for the oil bladder under its concealing moss, checked that he had the flint striker as well, then lowered the rope. Still no sign of the enemy, nor any sound. He’d eased over the edge and was hanging from the first knot in the drizzling rain when he smelt something.

  It was the reek of sweaty, unwashed bodies, carried to him on the updraught, so they weren’t far below. What if they’d torn through the wall already? He wouldn’t see them among the dark rocks, looking down, though he’d be clearly outlined against the sky. They’d grab him before he saw them.

  There wasn’t time to worry about it. If they’d crossed the wall, all was lost anyway, so he had to go down and make sure. It took all the courage he had. The thought of walking tamely into his father’s clutches and being sent back to prison couldn’t be borne.

  He went down facing outwards, the better to see, lowering himself hand over hand from one knot to the next, and as his fingers closed around each knot his terror grew until his stomach became a clenched fist of pain. Every second he expected to be struck down by an unseen blow, or for big, callused hands to grasp hold of him.

  He didn’t try to will the pain away, or ignore it. Nish used it to focus his mind on one thing only: defeating the enemy. He would go on, no matter what. He would master his fears and do his best, and if that failed, so be it.

  A projection in the stone gouged along his back
bone, though he barely noticed. His heels struck a knob; he lifted his feet forwards, went down to the next knot, then the one below that, holding his breath, expecting the blow. It didn’t fall. Hands didn’t grasp him out of the darkness, and after a couple more knots a dark wall rose in front of him and his feet settled on steeply sloping rock. He was at the base of the peat barrier; he was in time.

  He reached out to feel its comforting, fibrous solidity. Flydd had built it well, chiselling out the steeply sloping rock to make a sound foundation. The wall was a third of a span through at the top, thicker at the base, and as solid as stone when he leaned his weight on it. Nish settled the oil bladder on his back and began to pull himself up the rope, pushing at the barrier with his feet. He was just below the top when he heard the tap-clink of a climbing iron being knocked into a crevice, then someone spoke.

  ‘What the blazes is this?’ There came a thump, as if the soldier had laid into the wall with his sword. ‘It’s like it’s made of cheese.’

  ‘Toss a grapple iron over it and be quick,’ hissed another man, a sergeant from the authority in his voice. ‘That last cliff has cost us time and if we’re late the whole troop pays. You know what Vomix is like.’

  He’d survived that dive over the cliff on the flappeter, then. Nish shivered, drew back against the rock face so he couldn’t be seen and twisted the bung of the oil bladder. It rotated in place. He pulled a little harder, but it didn’t budge.

  Rope whirred through the air and a grappling iron struck the upslope wall of the peat barrier. He caught a faint gleam of silver as the rope pulled taut and the soldier tested it with a couple of quick heaves. It held.

  Nish jerked furiously at the bung, which came free with an audible pop.

  ‘What’s that?’ hissed the soldier.

  ‘A guard, drinking on duty,’ said the sergeant. ‘Quiet now.’