The Destiny of the Dead (The Song of the Tears Book 3)

by Ian Irvine

  Cracks ran across the ceiling here and there, and along them delicate icicles had formed. How long could the roof hold? After studying the icicles, which were unbroken, she decided that it was probably safe to go further.

  Halfway to the centre she stopped, squinting into the gloom. Could that faint, writhing worm of light up ahead be chthonic fire? Her heart thumped.

  In the middle of the open space, a ragged column of ice the width of a small cottage extended from floor to ceiling, like the well-gnawed core of an enormous apple. A ragged line of fire lit one of the edges facing her. There wasn’t much fire, though, and if she tried to collect it, it might go out. She needed as much as she could find.

  Maelys continued around to the left and, on the far side of the ice core, she discovered a brightly glowing patch of white fire near the floor.

  She squatted down to study it. The fire made a faint crackling sound as it consumed the ice, and it was strong and vigorous. As she was psyching herself up to collect it with the perilous dimensionless box, something scraped behind her and Maelys whirled.

  A tall and unusually gaunt man stood in the shadows, dressed in a black loincloth and wearing a crown of iron barbs, and his glittering, lidless eyes were fixed on her.

  ‘I knew one of you would return for the fire,’ said the Whelm sorcerer, Zofloc.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘The air-sled isn’t yours,’ Flydd said imperturbably to the dwarf. ‘You’re only minding it for the master whose filthy boots you lick clean every night.’

  Klarm scowled. ‘Drop the staff, Flydd, or feel all the power of Reaper.’ His hand hovered above its roiling surface.

  Nish looked from Klarm to Flydd, back to Klarm, and gnawed his lip. Even at the height of Flydd’s powers, a long time ago now, he had never been a match for the tears.

  ‘All the power?’ scoffed Flydd. ‘Come now, Klarm. Jal-Nish would have given you as little of Reaper’s power as he could get away with. He was always terrified of rivals.’

  ‘Do you seriously believe that he would leave his empire unprotected?’

  ‘Not if he’d known Stilkeen was coming. But he didn’t.’

  ‘He has long known of a threat from the void – he just didn’t know what it was.’

  ‘My point stands,’ said Flydd, though with less confidence than before. ‘Besides, we both know that it took Jal-Nish years to master the tears – you can’t have done it in a few days.’

  ‘I’ve served him loyally for many years,’ said Klarm. ‘I’ve had plenty of time to learn all about them. Are you prepared to risk it?’

  Flydd did not reply; he must have been having second thoughts. Nish would have done the same, for he still bore the scars from the touch of Reaper, and still felt the pain. But Flydd had to go on; he was their only hope now and he had to call Klarm’s bluff – if it was a bluff. How much of the tears’ power had Jal-Nish allowed the dwarf to use?

  ‘Xervish?’ Nish said. ‘When Father first tempted me, on the day my ten-year sentence was up, he boasted about his mastery of the tears. Then he said, I’ve made sure no one can use them but me.’

  ‘Did he now? How very interesting, Klarm.’

  ‘He was lying. He taught me more than enough,’ said Klarm. ‘Drop the staff.’

  ‘I don’t think I will.’ Flydd rotated the serpent staff until its forked tongue pointed at the dwarf. ‘I suspect I’m going to call your bluff.’

  ‘You can’t possibly know how to use that thing,’ said Klarm ringingly, though now his confidence sounded forced.

  ‘Care to risk it?’

  Klarm’s hand twitched as though he was going to attack, and Nish tensed.

  But he withdrew his hand, which was still bandaged from where it had been burned days ago, and said, ‘I don’t care to reveal my powers at this stage – you never know what might be watching.’ Turning, Klarm said in an amplified voice, ‘Take Nish and do not harm him. Cut the others down.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ said Flydd, grinning broadly. ‘You like to believe that you think of everything, General Klarm, but you’ve seriously underestimated me.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Klarm, gesturing to his troops to stop.

  ‘You assumed, as did certain others,’ Flydd was looking sideways at Nish now, and the grin had faded, ‘that I was only out for what I could get. That I had abandoned my friends and fled on the air-sled to save my miserable skin.’

  Nish swallowed, but said nothing. Words meant little and Flydd was exceptionally good with them. Deeds were what counted now.

  ‘I admit it,’ said Klarm. ‘You’re a strange man, Xervish, and you’ve grown far stranger since you took renewal. I watched you with Gatherer after you stole the air-sled, and you fled straight as an arrow for Gendrigore until I lost you behind the mountains.

  ‘What brought you back – a crisis of conscience? No – I don’t believe you have one. You came back for the tears. I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at them ever since Jal-Nish brought them to the Range of Ruin. You burn for them; you’ve got to have them, whatever the cost.’

  Flydd gave a scornful laugh. ‘I put on that expression every time you looked in my direction, to gull you. And it worked.’

  Klarm did not look convinced, and neither was Nish, for he remembered Flydd’s lustful stare from the battle in the clearing. He had seen it in his eyes whenever the tears had been mentioned, even when Klarm had been out of sight. Where had Flydd been all this time, and what had he done? And, most importantly, why had he come back? It had to be for the tears. How could he so betray them?

  ‘But Xervish,’ said Klarm, ‘you forget that we were scrutators together in the olden days, and that I once interrogated you. We had special ways of sorting truth from deceit and if any scrutator was more skilled at it than you, it was I. I know you’re hiding something.’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ said Flydd blandly, ‘and if you care to climb a few spans up the mountainside you’ll discover what it is.’

  ‘I’m not going to fall for that one,’ said Klarm.

  ‘Then send one of your men – the least and most useless of them.’

  Klarm stared at Flydd, who met his eyes evenly, shrugged and gestured to the man nearest to him. ‘Climb up the mountainside, trooper, and tell me what you see.’

  The soldier began to scramble up the steep slope. It was hard going, and it took several minutes to reach a height of ten spans. Everyone watched him in silence.

  What was Flydd getting at? Nish wondered. If it was a trick, it would soon be uncovered.

  The soldier turned, found a sound footing, looked down over the defences at the western gate, then started. ‘Soldiers, surr! An enemy army.’

  Nish’s feet almost lifted off the ground in relief. Of course Flydd hadn’t betrayed them.

  ‘What?’ cried Klarm, scrambling up to see for himself. ‘Whose army; how many? And how close?’

  ‘They’re not in uniform,’ said the soldier. ‘They’re dressed like farmers, though they’re well armed and moving fast. They’ll be coming over the western gate in a minute or two.’

  Klarm reached the soldier and followed his gaze. ‘Farmers!’ he cried, staring at Flydd. ‘Where the blazes did they come from?’

  Flydd laughed. ‘I got the idea from something Nish said, not long after we arrived in the clearing from the Numinator’s tower. You know Boobelar, of course, the drunken captain of the so-called militia from Rigore province.’

  ‘I’ve spoken with him,’ said Klarm, his lips thinning. ‘He would betray his own grandmother.’

  ‘He put a knife to his nephew’s throat.’ Flydd’s smile faded. ‘Weeks ago, Boobelar told Nish that the militia from Gendri province weren’t coming, but I know the reputation of the stolid folk from Gendri – the flatlanders, as everyone calls them, somewhat ironically, since there is no flat land in Gendrigore. They don’t make promises they can’t keep, and therefore Boobelar had to be lying.’

  ‘The Gendri militia never turned
up at the rendezvous in Wily’s Clearing,’ said Nish.

  ‘And you didn’t wonder why, knowing the honest folk of Gendrigore as you did?’ said Flydd. ‘No, you were already pressed for time and could not wait. But the answer seemed obvious to me. The militia hadn’t come because Boobelar had given them false directions – he wanted the battlefield plunder for himself – and they were still lost in the mountains when you left Wily’s Clearing for the Range of Ruin.’

  ‘So you went looking for them.’

  ‘And found them, not far away,’ said Flydd, barely able to contain his glee. ‘I set them on the right path and told them to come on at all speed, for their countrymen were in peril and desperately needed aid. And here they are, five hundred and sixty-two men and women of Gendri, all fit and strong, well-supplied with the rations that failed to reach you at Wily’s Clearing, Nish, and thirsting to defend their land and their people. Plus another forty-six of your own militia, from the lot you left behind with dysentery, now recovered. Well, Klarm? I think they have the measure of your exhausted hundred.’

  A horn blasted, and the first of the Gendri militia topped the ramp over the western gap. Big, brawny farmers they might be, but their spears made a neat line against the sky and they were marching in step, singing as they came.

  ‘Whoever leads them, they’re well-trained,’ said Nish, signing to his troops, who raised their swords and let out a full-throated cheer of defiance.

  Klarm’s hand slipped towards Reaper.

  ‘I’m calling your bluff,’ said Flydd, pointing the serpent staff at the dwarf again, ‘and your troops don’t have time to do their dirty work. You’ve lost, Klarm. The Histories will tell of this battle as the Deliverer’s first victory, and the empire’s greatest defeat. I might even take a shot at writing the Great Tale myself, once I retire.’ He grinned mockingly. ‘I’ll accept your surrender now.’

  The quicksilver surface of Reaper began to churn and bubble, and in a flash of clearsight Nish saw something hot and black and eager below the surface. The hovering hand froze and he caught his breath. If Klarm did know how to draw upon the dreadful power of Reaper, and dared to take Flydd on, he could turn defeat into victory in a moment.

  Flydd’s fist tightened on the serpent staff, which was limned with a baleful green luminosity.

  Klarm swallowed, went to lower his swollen, bandaged hand onto Reaper, but at the last second snatched it away, struggling to control his terror. How interesting, thought Nish. He’s used Gatherer many times, and Reaper once or twice, but he’s still afraid of it.

  It had burned him when he’d destroyed the red-haired archer’s arm in the clearing, and perhaps at other times, which would explain why he had not attacked the pass directly, using Reaper’s power to shatter the defences and destroy the militia. But Klarm, for all his courage in other ways, was too afraid of the uncanny tears.

  ‘Be damned!’ Klarm raised his voice. ‘Piper, sound the retreat.’

  A soldier raised a horn and let out several abrasive blasts.

  ‘Surr,’ said a deathly-white sergeant, ‘where would you have us retreat to?’

  ‘Back over the pass,’ said Klarm. ‘Head down the Range of Ruin, all the way to the barracks in Taranta, Sergeant. I thank you for your loyal service, and I pray that you make it.’

  ‘Surr?’ The sergeant’s voice quavered. ‘Are you not coming with us?’

  ‘I must take a path that no mortal man may follow,’ said Klarm. ‘At least, no one who does not hold the Profane Tears. Even with them, I may not survive it, but I have to try. I must find a way to fight Stilkeen. Farewell.’

  The sergeant saluted and turned away, and his one hundred tattered and broken men followed him up and over the crest of Blisterbone, out of sight.

  ‘They’ll never get there,’ said Flydd. ‘The really wet season will hit any day now.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ said Klarm regretfully, ‘but I could not take them on the path I’m forced to follow.’

  ‘Into the shadow realm?’ said Flydd.

  ‘Yes. Aren’t you going to stop me?’

  ‘How could I? You’ve got the tears – why won’t you use them?’

  Again Klarm’s hand moved towards Reaper; again drew back. ‘The cursed tears,’ he said heavily, like one old friend confiding in another. ‘I only took them out of duty, though I never thought the burden of carrying them would grow so heavy.’

  ‘It would not be as heavy if the burden was shared,’ said Flydd slyly.

  ‘With you?’

  ‘Why not? You know what a monster Jal-Nish is, and he’s gone, probably never to return, so why do you still serve him? Why continue to do his evil work?’

  ‘He is a monster,’ said Klarm. ‘I see it now he’s gone –’

  ‘Because the deceptions he worked upon you with Gatherer have faded,’ Flydd suggested. ‘I never thought you, of all people, would be so easily taken in.’

  Klarm ignored that. ‘But there is also good in Jal-Nish. He loves Santhenar, and he saw long ago that it was under threat.’

  He tried to tell me many times, Nish remembered, but I refused to listen. I thought he was trying to manipulate me again. You have no idea of the vicious creatures that lurk in the eternal void between the worlds, desperate to get out, Jal-Nish had said at the beginning, but I do. I’ve seen them with the tears, and every one of them hungers for the prize: the jewel of worlds that is Santhenar. And he had been right.

  ‘The God-Emperor is determined to protect our world,’ Klarm went on, ‘and he’s the only one who can. That’s why I cannot break my word to him. Loyalty matters to me and I will not turn my coat; I also know that no one else can protect Santhenar from Stilkeen.’

  ‘We can,’ said Flydd, ‘once we bring the empire down and wield the tears.’

  ‘How long would the world be racked by civil war before you succeeded – if you did? Months? Years? I can’t take the risk, Flydd. Besides, as you pointed out, it takes great strength of purpose to master the tears, and much practice. Jal-Nish spent thirteen years learning their powers and perils; you could hardly do it in less.’

  ‘I believe I could,’ said Flydd. ‘All modesty aside, I was a better mancer than he was. Far better.’

  ‘Maybe so, but it does not mean you can pick up the tears and wield them in our defence. I’m sorry, Xervish, I cannot yield. I swore to my God-Emperor and I will not give them up, not even to you. Farewell … and don’t think too badly of me. I may have done bad things, but I did them for good reasons. We were the best of friends once, weren’t we?’ There was the slightest pleading note in his voice.

  Flydd wasn’t going to give him any satisfaction. ‘Were we?’ he said coldly. ‘I often reckon up my true friends and give thanks for their steadfastness, but I never see you on that list.’

  Klarm shivered, bowed stiffly from the waist, then cupped his left hand above the surface of Reaper. He turned away, growing ever more transparent, walked into the solid rock of the white-thorn peak and disappeared.

  NINETEEN

  ‘That was interesting,’ said Flydd as the Gendri militia came streaming up the track, and Nish’s survivors stumbled down to greet them.

  ‘I’m not sure that I take your meaning,’ said Nish distractedly.

  ‘Klarm is afraid to use Reaper, and that astonishes me, for he’s the bravest man I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Physical bravery is one thing; courage in the face of such unknown and uncanny Arts is quite another,’ Nish said, with feeling.

  ‘I quite agree, but Klarm is a mancer of both power and subtlety, and long experience. As a scrutator he created hundreds of devices for mancery, and I never knew anyone with a more subtle understanding of those Arts. Why should he be afraid of the tears?’

  ‘Because he does not understand the particular Art behind them?’

  ‘There must be more to it than that,’ said Flydd. ‘I wonder … can he fear that the tears have been shaped by the warped mind of their master, and now
have a malicious life of their own?’

  ‘If he’s so afraid, we should also be wary of them,’ Nish said pointedly.

  Flydd shrugged and turned to stare at the mountain into which Klarm had disappeared. Was he planning to follow him, even into the shadow realm? Flydd had once proposed to take that dreadful path himself, thinking it was the only way to escape from Jal-Nish’s cordon around Mistmurk Mountain, but Yalkara had intervened and he had ended up in the Nightland instead.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Nish forced his thoughts back to the present, his quest to overthrow his father and, most urgently, how they were going to get off the Range of Ruin before the really wet season broke and trapped them for its five-month duration.

  ‘How many people can the air-sled carry?’ he said.

  ‘Chissmoul?’ Flydd called. ‘Leave off groping Nish’s lieutenant and come here.’

  She came across, not in the least abashed. ‘Surr?’

  Flydd repeated Nish’s question.

  She frowned and touched the bandage over her missing ear. ‘If we sling safety ropes around the edges we might pack everyone on. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I presume you don’t want to walk all the way to the centre of the empire. Besides, the Gendri militia can’t carry our wounded down,’ Flydd said to Nish. Another crack of thunder sounded, louder this time. ‘The really wet season is going to break any day now. You’d better send them back at once.’

  ‘I don’t think any force on Santhenar could shift them just now,’ said Nish, choking up as he watched the Gendrigorean troops embracing one another like long-lost friends. ‘It’s been a long time since my militia have had anything to celebrate. We’ve got to give them time to greet old comrades, begin to grieve for all they’ve lost, and celebrate their victory.’

  Flydd seemed slightly irritated, but finally nodded. ‘It’s been a long time for us all. You’d better join them; you’ll appear proud and standoffish if you hold back.’ But then he smiled and extended his hand. ‘Magnificently fought, Nish. No one else could have done what you’ve achieved here today. I’m sorry we took so long to get back, and left you no word.’